This is the tumblr of the Norwich University of the Arts Creative Writing Society (or the Scribes). Here you can find our collected works. Explore and find some literary treasures and poetic gems.
1st Brief - The Last Case of Detective S.More - by Vivian
Detective Sulliver More stubbed the remnants of his cigarette against the trunk of a baby blue tree, leaving an unsightly black circle. Then he shrugged his trench coat tighter around himself, dug his hands into his pockets, and stalked further into the pastel-hued wilderness. In the folds of his cloak, his fingers were flexing in and out of a fist. He hated this place.
The place was an untamed thicket in the Northern corner of Marshmallow Ponyland, and the reason he was wading through the despicable lavender-under bush was his ex-colleague, Bonny. Bonny was one of the few people on the department that Sulliver, well, not liked, but respected. Of the things Sulliver liked, there were few: smoking, the high of solving a case, and reading 'The Sorrows of Young Werther', his favorite novel. Of the things Sulliver disliked, there were many more, but let us say the list was topped by pastel colored clouds, dreamy pink sunsets, glittery rainfall, and animals that giggled constantly - all elements amply represented in Marshmallow Ponyland.
Sulliver trampled over a fluffy patch of cotton candy-moss and dodged under some drooping branches, heavy with gumdrops. Right as he crossed a creek, sizzling with pink lemonade, he stopped. Something flashed in the corner of his eye. He was not alone.
When the blackness subsided Sulliver had been tied over a campfire. His hands and feet had been secured with strawberry lace, strung so tight that it drew blood. The detective gritted his teeth and yanked his hands in principle. He'd been taken to some sort of forest clearing, in which the blue lengths of grass shimmered ever so faintly in the peachy sunset and had been trampled, in places, by the tribe of Moonpie marshmallow-ponies.
Marshmallow Ponyland was named so because of the wild marshmallows that lived there, the amicable ponies, and the horrible, unholy crossbreeds; the marshmallow ponies. Here they were now, hovering around him, their big dark eyes glimmering out of their puffy, misshapen heads. They trod the ground with their hooves that left throngs of marshmallow stretching between their feet and the grass. They whinnied in a sound like squelching and breathed a sweet, sickly scent on Sullivers face.
There was no reasoning with these creatures, and they quickly set to work. One advanced on him and tore apart his coat with its doughy hooves. Sulliver felt beads of sweat drop from his face. One of them fanned the campfire and he could feel his back burn, scalded by the flames. The biggest and the most ugly of the ponies advanced on him it’s throat making disgusting belching noises. It gagged and retched all over Sullivers face. Sulliver felt the warm, sticky chocolate trickle past his nostrils and over his lips. He spat it onto the hissing flames.
The chocolate stung his skin which was beginning to crisp. He could smell himself burn. He smelt like chocolate and charred bacon. Tilting their heads back, the Moonpie tribe whinnied. When they opened their mouths every single of their teeth was replaced by a decaying pit of festering black rot. Their tongues were coated with blisters. The skins of the ones closest to him, attending to the spit, were crisping and bubbling from the heat of the flames, but they continued, even as their eyes began to vanish under their bloating marshmallow-skin.
In a ritual display that would’ve repelled him if he was not preoccupied by pain, acolytes of the tribe stepped forth and extended their forelegs. The eldest and most ugly of the ponies brought down a candycane machete, chopping off the offered limbs. Horse whinnies filled the night. The sacrifice was tossed onto the embers beside the fire which tended Sulliver, and he could see the marshmallow begin to bubble and roast. That was when Sulliver accepted his death. He stopped struggling to gulp down fresh air and breathed instead the thick, noxious smokes. His last thoughts were of Bonny, and whether they had, in addition to their addictions to smoking, also perhaps shared the same fate.
1st Brief - Bruce Stockwell, Stuntman - by Owen Bannister
My response to the first task, to write something inspired by a genre, setting and character from a list. My selections were 'Pulp Fiction', 'Cold, gray, unforgiving city' and 'super handsome & super-skilled man with amazing hair'.
As always my work is NSFW.
1976, Los Angeles, the United States of America. The hangover of the 60s is still ringing in the nations ears. Gerald Ford is president, nobody cares. What they really care about is that ABBA is on the radio and California's sodomy law has been repealed. Anuses, moustaches and flares are all the rage now. And in a tiny apartment on an unfashionable street Bruce Stockwell, stuntman, is combing his hair.
Bruce Stockwell had never considered himself a particularly intelligent man but he was painfully aware that the many empty bottles of beer and hairspray littering his apartment were not doing him any favours.
"Hey Baby, get in here!" he called out in a gruff Texan drawl to his new girl, Tina or something.
"Fine. Stop yellin' will ya." Tina was a sweet girl, if not too bright. She had ambition though, she was going to be famous. She thought she was a poet who was destined to be an actress (everyone in L.A is destined to be an actress even the men) although in reality she worked behind a bar.
"What d'ya' think darlin'? How's my hair?"
"Perfect."
Bruce Stockwell smiled his Hollywood smile. "Perfect" he thought. He could pride himself on few things in life. His abs of steel, his golden hair, his driving skills. All of these and his ability to remove a man's ribcage with his teeth. Oh what he wouldn't give for a chance to do that again.
It is 1976, anuses, moustaches and flares are all the rage and Bruce Stockwell, stuntman, isn't happy about it.
News Report: The 2-Headed Chicken - Owen Bannister
A farmer outside the city reports to have discovered a 2-headed chicken among his brood. The hens at 'Mr. Crichton's Friendly Foul Emporium' have long been noted for their rich eggs and succulent meat but never previously for cranial anomalies.
Intrigued and excited this journalist went to see the bi-cranial beast for himself. On arrival at the farm I was taken aback by the intense smell of salt and iodine but, undeterred, I ventured on. I was swiftly met by Mr. Christopher Crichton, 54, a portly, red-faced bespectacled gentleman and brought to the enclosure.
Acting, as this newspaper always does, as a responsible voice for our community, I reported these bizarre goings-on to the local police department. Mr. Crichton has since been arrested on a number of charges, the police citing 'an intense and vicious violation of the animal cruelty act beyond anything previously reported'.
The discovery of what can only be described as a 'Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory' at the farm has led to health warnings regarding the 'Friendly Foul Emporium's' output. Readers are advised to avoid eating chicken or other suspicious meat products.
Mr. Grimm would like to make it clear that 'Grimm's Tasty Chicken Substitute' is available from all good local food vendors.
(For the Night Vale-inspired Norwich radio broadcast project that Owen suggested. Note that these happenings are based on true events...)
Good evening, Norwich.
Welcome to your evening miscellaneous news and warnings broadcast with me, the Puppet Man, your friendly, ever-soothing voice of current goings on and incursions in our beautiful, fine city. Remember Mr Adams' wise words of wisdom, dear listeners: don't panic and, as always, kill on site.
And now, we start with the news segment.
When asked for the reason behind this plan the Mayor merely stared at the reporter and intoned in an unearthly voice, “NO QUESTIONS. NO ANSWERS. ONLY KNOWLEDGE.” A spokesperson on the Mayor's behalf soon confided that the decision had been made because of recent heritage funding of £666 million to cover the next year and that Norwich wedding rates correlated with museum visitor numbers – they were both low. When asked where this money was coming from the informant shrugged and unmistakably said, “Dragon gold?” A blatant reference to Dragon Hall, the museum of – what else? – dragons that was built in medieval times and was since restored and open for similar hired events. It was Dragon Hall that cryptically burnt down earlier this year, resulting in the loss of the entire preserved history of dragons. Since the incident no one can say why, where or how it happened
Doubting specialists believe that the Mayor's decision may have something to do with his recent accessory of a rapacious brain slug that has lodged and engorged itself on the side of Mayor Driver's head. Not to worry, listeners, county council leader George Nobbs has since amended the Mayor's statement, saying that forthwith there will no longer be weddings in Norwich, on punishment of death. He also mentioned that the money will be funding the Strangers' Hall to keep its high-maintenance strangeness up to date. Isn't that great! But don't forget Norwich Castle, listeners, and remember, as always, unattended children are free to enter the Castle museum without charge but, as always, they must pay a fee if they wish to leave.
The yearly ghost walk is fast approaching and is due to take place on the 28th October until the 1st November, that's five days of walking, listeners. If you would like to volunteer as a “scarer” just contact Norwich City Council in advance. As always, volunteers will be asked to dress up in dark hooded cloaks, follow the frightfully titillated walkers back to their homes and kidnap them. A few of the stop-points will be at the oldest pubs in Norwich, where of course the oldest ghosts live, or well, live beyond the grave.
I am told there is especially exciting poltergeist activity in both the Sir Garnet and the renowned Adam and Eve pub. Mysterious owners of the Adam and Eve (on Bishopgate) who have been managing the pub since its sudden appearance in the 13th Century, say that the apple tree that grows in their beer garden grew from a pip from an apple that grew, soured and died in the heavenly garden of Eden. And isn't that fitting, dear, fine listeners, that Norwich is like our own little bit of Eden? Truly, Norwich is heaven on earth.
So go ahead and pop by The Sir Garnet for their delicious pies and pale figures in windows. Make a day of it at the Adam and Eve, where the consumption of alcohol is permitted and from unseen hands heavy objects will be thrown at you when you are at your most unassuming. A fun, fine day for the whole family.
If you're interested in having your very own house haunted just go see David Ceased, owner of The Old Abattoir on St Benedict's street – ghouls, ghosts, phantoms, even furniture demonic possessions, you name it, Mr Ceased can supply it and in no time you'll have your own hellishly haunted home. All customers can choose their very own particular ghost, picking through a stock that has been organised by personalities, skill-sets, age range and much more so it's that much easier to decide. And David mentions that there's a discount for first time buyers as well as a past-your-lifetime guarantee on purchases, now how about that!
Also, I'm legally obliged to mention that as soon as you sign and make your first purchase your very own soul will automatically belong to Mr D Ceased. When you're no longer with us your ghost will be at The Old Abattoir instead! Happy shopping, listeners...
And now, our regularly scheduled weekly warnings.
In business news there are fears over a new art supplies shop on Unthank Road. As you all know, listeners, it is has been nine blissfully fearful years since the last art supplies shop was burned down by brave citizens. This recent attempt to breathe stagnant life into a shop that has stood happily vacant – save for a few squatting hobgoblins – has run into opposition with, well, everyone. The former popular Stan's Self-Sacrificial Tools closed down in 2008 and has done no harm ever since. But an enigmatic aspiring shopkeeper who no one has ever seen has asked Norwich City Council for permission to demolish the former Stan's building, to replace with a new monstrosity, one that none of us need or want.
Of course Mark Illusion, the city council's own human conservation officer has said that the proposal is “unacceptable in all terms” he also mentioned that any listeners who actually see the man, woman or creature who wishes to blight our city with a service that willhelp artists should, in his exact words, “kill it, kill it with fire”. Others have hypothesised that if the supplies shop was given the go ahead then the council and city could monitor it closely, thereby using it as a trap that artists will be drawn to and therefore making it easier to capture more artists. All other opinions are hysterical but valid.
Who knows what will happen on Unthank Road, listeners? I only hope that this will not end in tears, but in blood.
I have a report that has been sitting on my desk for the past few months and I will read it to you. A few months ago there was an Art Festival. No one knows how it came about, there was no pretence, no sign, and then, one horrible morning, there were signs for it everywhere, reading: Art Festival This Week. Those of you who were gallant or foolish enough to leave your homes have tried to forget it, but I cannot, for the sake of giving you the news, I cannot. I will tell you of what happened on one of the fateful, hateful nights during that damned week.
There were creatures in the Cathedral gardens. And music, such haunting, deafening music, it was like a soundtrack from a nightmare. And people were there, drawn by the music, the lights, there at their own peril, their own stupidity. And the creatures, my God. Eight of them, with huge, bulbous white bodies, their movements were eerie and light, like they were full of air, and evil. I hid behind the safety of a tree and watched in horror as they reached down with their... their hands and rubbed them through people's hair. Those poor people. And then, they would, the only way I can put it, listeners, absorb them into their fleshy fleshless, fat bodies. I could watch no longer, no one screamed, no one ran, no one but I. No doubt they were under the creature's spell, but I was not. And as vomit spilled down my front, as mist rolled at my ankles and I passed under glowing lamps, I escaped, escaped those creatures and their sinisterly soft embraces. Still there were no screams to these sacrifices. It went on. I slipped away, not before warning curious passers-by to beware, to go home and wish that they too were not absorbed into the void.
And listeners, here is the most terrible part. Upon leaving, I glanced back and saw. I saw the small sickeningly delighted faces in the middle of the creatures and I saw. The creatures were artists.
People do not believe me, they believe that these creatures were just another spiritual entity that had come to our Fine City. But they weren't. And yes, when it was over no one was found killed or truly absorbed, no one was missing, but then – what? What was it? Were those who were absorbed but not absorbed, marked? I do not know. I still have trouble sleeping. All I can see as I lie awake at night, kept awake by fear and insomnia, are those creatures, those artists, reaching out for me... with their hands...
And now, to the present.
The Gorillas. Over one hundred gorilla sculptures are in our city and it is a plague. They started appearing a few weeks ago and have since proved near impossible to remove. Luckily, their increase in numbers seem to have ceased. These things are the exact size of an adult gorilla and are to be averted at all costs. Decorated with a variety of colourful and terrifying artwork no one thought it could get any worse, but it did.
It seems that these sculptures are coming to life. One witness, a Fiona Ward of mystifying backgrounds told me that after a successful demon-summoning ceremony she was walking home with her young son late at night down Tombland when one of the Gorillas appeared to be alive.
She told me, “It was moving, grunting, looking about. I offered it a banana but it swiped it away and tried to snatch my eight-year-old son from me, at this point I tried to kick the creature and ran away on a broken foot. I am now taking the artist responsible to court where hopefully they will be sentenced to rot away in prison.” And rightfully so, Fiona. Although this may prove difficult as the artists of these monstrosities have either already been rounded up and arrested, been murdered, exiled, or gone into hiding. They may have gone but when will their creations leave us as well?
There are also rumours that children have helped in the decoration of these gorillas. There are reports from local schools that children had gone missing for days at a time only to return with creative intentions and unexplained artistic abilities. This would explain the child-like art on some of the gorillas, although it could be said that a deranged artist (when is an artist never deranged?) was equally capable of doing it.
Remember, if your child is showing the beginnings of artistic tendencies go straight to St Andrews Mental Hospital for instant medication, therapy and reconditioning sessions. Or if these are too costly or if the case has gotten beyond St Andrews' abilities, simply hand them over to a Norwich Secret Police Station. These stations are situated in all the darkest, coldest, loneliest areas of the city, excluding our hearts. The Norwich Secret Police will be sure to deal with the problem within four working days. Good luck, ill-fortuned listeners!
And once again, I must implore you to avoid all forms of art in the city, dear, dear listeners. Oh, they may seem catching to the eye, such as those strange chalk symbols scrawled on the pavement by the market square. You know, the ones that seem to move when you turn your eyes away just for a second. Or the graffiti murals, no doubt portals to other worlds, that adorn the former Her Majesty's Secular Oracle building site behind Anglian Square. We all know that it was once a pleasant place, a popular site for blood offerings, drug trading and antenatal classes for expecting mothers, but really people, you should be more cautious. Artists as well as normal citizens now congregate there so I advise that all who treasure their safety should avoid that now dangerous area. It seems that nowhere is safe now.
The one piece of good news that I have in the warnings side of this broadcast is that it seems that the closed Norwich University of the Arts buildings have disappeared for the time being. Although vanishing buildings may arouse suspicion that neighbouring properties are similarly infected, nothing can dampen our relief. It has been little over a month since the last student activity where they nearly defeated us, listeners. Everyone is recovering and going along happily with their lives but there is fear, deep and sure in our bellies. Just as there are brains in the rotting abdomen of the restless living dead whom reside in the graveyard opposite the Chapelfield shopping centre. Just as there are fishermen in the stomachs of the giant river serpents, there is fear within us, always, for as long as there are art students in our beautiful, precious city there will be fear in its citizens as well.
And now, my dear, fine Norwich, my fellow broadcaster, Alan Partridge, will now take my place for your back-by-popular-demand scheduled four hours of endless blithering and babbling about nothing in particular. Enjoy, Norwich. And remember, all things art, should be torn apart.
News report: The Ghosts of the Art University - Vivian
A new report has come in from our mysterious correspondent, the one with the blue scarf. Our correspondent -whose reports are always badly folded, dusty, coffee-stained- tells us that there are, in fact, ghosts living in the art university.
She tells us that they live in the creaking closets behind the boxes of dusty chalks or above the splintery beams of the ceilings. They hide like shadows in puddles of spilt ink and camouflage themselves in the piles of plaster scraps.
And, our blue-scarf wearing correspondent says, if you see men making their metal-heeled boots clack against the stony steps of the university, their military green trench coats glimmering with badges and pins, know that they are in fact Ghost Mediums. If they seem a little rounder than usual, with the buttons of their jackets straining against their bloated abdomens, it is because an extra layer of fat can protect a person against malevolent spirits.
Ghosts are not very sociable folk, our correspondent tells us. They are quite irritated that they are constantly sought after by these men in their strange green coats with their metallic, ticking machines, with their sharp, swinging pendulums and wobbling potbellies. Ghosts are like the faded imprints of past images on a silk-screen; faint and translucent, noted by their absence of something rather than the presence of anything. They want to be noticed by someone sometimes, but they pick and choose their seers; new students and old favourites, the teachers whose minds and spirits are jaded to the strange flickers of shadows on their office walls.
The ghosts are old muses, depressed artists, and strange benefactors. There is even a nun, back from the days when the building was a monastery and the black hems of their gowns swept the marble floors. She is a quiet one, even on ghost standards, but has a soft spot for young and handsome students, and anyone on the rugby team.
If the Ghosts should decide to show themselves, our correspondent hopes that we pass on her wishes that they return her blue scarf and stop haunting her boyfriends apartment.
I saw a pigeon sitting on a bin,
It was obvious to anyone who looked at it,
That it was dying.
Lying in a deathbed of garbage and decay,
Nested in this cold metal tree,
It made not a sound,
Not a move,
Even when passers-by threw their rubbish,
In its hollow home.
Some of the people noticed it,
Some people talked to it although,
Through the glass it was not clear what they said.
One old man looked upon it gently,
With the righteous sincerity of a priest.
Perhaps seeing a mirrored face,
In this ornithological tragedy.
This raggedy creature,
Screamed silently for help.
For assistance.
But all I could give the pathetic bird was sympathy,
And watch it wait out its final hours above man made crap,
Surfing the detritus of the world to its final resting place.
I saw a pigeon sitting on a bin.
It was obvious to anyone who looked at it,
That it was dying.
She was beautiful,
Although you couldn't tell.
She hid her tear-stained eyes,
Behind oversized sunglasses,
Buzzing and sobbing like,
A demented fly.
And occasionally, from between her lips,
A name is whispered,
At once a prayer and a curse,
And a plea,
Although no one could hear her but me,
She wore a summer dress,
And held her marble skin in her hands,
Conscious of a thousand eyes that aren't those two eyes,
And the whispers of a thousand tongues that aren't his tongue,
She shivered,
I wanted to keep her warm,
To hold her chromium hands between my hands,
To read her these words,
To rip open my chest and let her.
Wrap herself around my heart,
And sleep and forget.
But her delicate glass face,
Was already cracked and stained by his love,
Her heart already danced in time with his drum,
And I watched this crippled beauty walk out the door,
And back into his labyrinth,
I do not hate you,
But when I look into your eyes,
I see an eviscerated love,
A burnt out crack whore,
Who offers me rotten apples,
And reminds me of intimate, painful moments,
And whose skeleton I still see in my bed.
I hate only myself,
I see you still wear my crown of thorns,
Still drink vinegar to wash away my kisses,
Still bleed like a real human girl.
And the words you speak are fingers down my throat,
I cough and vomit up bile and hate,
It dribbles down my chin,
And I grin,
But only to show these teeth,
Behind the lips that are no longer yours,
to kiss.
See You Soon (A Poem For Absent Friends) - Owen Bannister
Though we are distanced in miles,
We never shall be by hearts,
We are bound together by strings,
That we tied to each others' stomachs,
And now,
When we are far,
The are pulled tight,
Painful and strong,
And choke out tears.
When I am alone, I close my eyes,
And breathe in the air,
Knowing that it is the same air,
Under the same moon,
That we breathe each night,
When we are apart.
I send you letters everyday,
Trying to write out all of the things,
We know without saying,
All the trials and the truths and the beautiful lies we share,
Believing.
And every day I end up with the same thing,
Hello,
I love you,
P.S. See you soon.
I saw her. I knew she wasn’t there but I say her. Tiny eyes resting on a huge landscape. Sands swirling, my skin burning, hot. It was hot in the desert. That’s the thing about deserts, hot. Too hot for me, I could feel my blood boiling beneath my skin, steam seething, streaming around my body. Every time I opened my mouth I vomited up dust, spewing my hope upon the sands. I was dying, I knew I was dying, I’d known I was dying for the last twenty minutes. They never tell you that. Try being brave in the face of death and you’ll find yourself in an excruciatingly long staring contest, it’s not like in the movies ‘cough cough, fall down dead’. It’s long and it’s painful.
Yet, through my morbid haze I gazed up and saw her, dressed in white, she stood a negative silhouette against the dunes. And she saw me and smiled. ‘The bitch,’ I thought ‘can’t she see I’m dying’ as she strode towards me, skating on the sands like a mirage. She sat next to me. I was sprawled on the ever-shifting ground, letting the sand wash over me, becoming part of the land, I could already imagine the insects and lizards picking my bones clean.
She never said a word. Just smiled. I hated her, I hated her for about two minutes until I realised she was all I got. One dying soldier and, what I assumed was a mentally challenged little girl, lying in the desert. What did she have to smile about? That’s all I could think. Why’s she smiling? And then I died. It’s not that big a deal after you do it. Some people like to think that it’s like falling asleep but it’s not. It’s more like waking up in reverse. At least you get to see yourself, nice little extra to life, an epilogue, you get to see what happens to your body.
The little girl began to laugh. And then she drew her knife. Slicy slice, she cut up my dried up corpse and began eating it and let out a cry like something small being stepped on and vultures started appearing from all corners of the sky. Not that skies have corners, these things are clearer to the dead. And they all sat there and ate me. Ate my arms, ate my legs, one of them ate my liver. I always hated liver. I started to laugh. You gotta be fair to her, that girl was smart.
