The Scribe.


The scribe scribbled on, long into the night.
His pencil dulled as did the candle light.
He shivered with cold and his fingers ached,
But he had a mission, and it could not wait.

Life was his subject and this he knew well,
Now he had its story and wished it to tell.
His own had been lived to its utmost extent,
Now his mind was full with plenty content.

He started at the beginning then drifted a mite,
He had re-edited, and now the storyline was right.
He sat back and gazed at what he had wrote.
He felt a tear rise and almost choked.

He had started off intending to write a happy tale,
But he had dwelt on too many occasions when all was not well.
With a sad heavy heart he did rise,
Closing the cover to his treasured prize.

In the morning he rose and his book was not there.
He searched in a mood of despondency and fear.
Then he saw that things had changed,
Furniture had been moved and rearranged.

Where some sort of order existed before,
Now cobwebs and dust-covered all but the door.
The door it seemed, had been used many times,
The reason was in the corner, where sat many more scribes.

He started to speak but they were all deaf,
He was saddened, disillusioned and bereft.
It was then that the notion entered his head,
His sanity was saved, he was simply dead.

Anything But Hackneyed. UK

Anything But Hackneyed. US


About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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