A p.o.e.m

This is a poem about how much Barney hates me:

The Notebook

My dog has a secret notebook,

which he hides in his bed,

inside he writes of many things,

Such as river dips and walks,

And lady dogs and cats,

And circumventing squirrels.

Anything like that.

I’ve never seen his notebook

But I know he writes

in it when nobody is looking.

Page upon page upon page

Of amusing anecdotes

And canine ruminations

In scratchy print.

I often feel him staring at me,

But when I look

he turns his head as if he wasn’t,

He’s thinking what to write

About me his in pad,

Scrawling my name

Over and over.

One time I tried to find it,

But he’d hidden it well.

And when he came back from the garden,

He eyed me suspiciously.

He hasn’t trusted me since.

Unreliable narrator..

So, this piece is written from first person perspective in a journal form. The man is supposed to be an unreliable narrator:

'An unreliable narrator is a first-person narrator that for some reason has a compromised point-of-view. In all stories with a first-person narrator, the narrator serves as a filter for the events. What the narrator does not know or observe cannot be explained to the reader. Usually, however, the reader trusts that the narrator is knowledgeable and truthful enough to give them an accurate representation of the story. In the case of an unreliable narrator (sometimes called a fallible narrator), the reader has reason not to trust what the narrator is saying.'

So basically, he's got the wrong end of the stick and he is the only one who doesn't realise...

Underneath

Tuesday 6^th September 2011

Dear Diary,

Well, I must start by saying that today has been glorious! The skies have been blue all afternoon and the sunrise this morning was breathtaking, the heavens were aflame with ochres, violets and vermilions. In fact, it was so warm my Riesling and I were even able to sit out in the garden right up until dusk, and all in a short sleeved shirt! I really would not rather be anywhere else than this little village at this splendid time of year.

And I am not ashamed to tell you, my dear diary, that today I feel truly blessed.

We woke up at 5:30am (as usual) and took our breakfast on the terrace. True to form, Gatsby was after mine once he had finished his, but I recalled what the vet had said and resisted, even with his big, brown, pleading eyes fixed on me as they were. That reminds me, I must remember to order some more of his heart tablets – I shall do that in the morning.

So, after that we took our morning stroll down the garden and into the woods, towards the reservoir. The chaffinches were out in force and their music was beautiful, and lo and behold, we even had the luck to spot a doe and her young fawn not 30 yards away.  We watched them for what must have been a whole minute before they caught wind of us and darted off. The early morning sunlight streamed through the trees magnificently and the air felt so fresh.

We were just coming up towards the reservoir when Gatsby caught a scent and ran off, I could hear him barking so followed him into a leafy hollow. And imagine my surprise, dear diary, when I saw that there stood two young men, neither of which I had ever laid eyes on before! They were trying hush Gatsby but he was so proud of his nose and was showing off about it! Rather loudly, I might add.

I called out a greeting as I approached and they both seemed very surprised to see me, probably impressed that a man of my advanced years should be so deep in the woods, so very early in the morning.  And to tell you the truth, they both looked very upset and agitated.  I could put their red faces down to the recent exertion of refilling the large rectangular hole which lay at their feet, but there seemed to be an air of turmoil about them which I could not quite put my finger on.

It wasn’t until I enquired of the nature of their outing that the answer became clear; their very, very dear dog had passed away in the night and they were laying him there to rest. I consoled them by remarking that they couldn’t have chosen a better spot for a final resting place and that Butch (as I later learned the dogs name to be) would be very happy there. I told them about how sad I was when Gatsby’s dear mother has passed and that time really is the best healer. I asked what breed of dog Butch was, as the hole was so large, and they said he was an Alsatian. I said that Alsatians were among the noblest of dogs.

The dear fellows looked at their wits end and seemed very uncomfortable, so I offered to say a few words in remembrance of Butch, which I did, rather spectacularly I might add. They both seemed very moved by my words, and shared more than a few assuring glances with each other during my ad-lib eulogy. I closed with a passage from Corinthians, which I think they did not recognise, but still, my intentions were clear.

In the ensuing moments of respectful silence, I picked a few marigolds and laid them on the freshly tilled earth where I imagined Butch’s head to be. The two men, overcome with emotion, left straight afterwards, carrying their spades over their shoulders. However, it wasn’t until they were out of sight that I realised I hadn’t caught either of their names.  A shame really, it’s not often you encounter men who wear their hearts on their sleeves quite so honourably as those two. It was refreshing to see two youths so in touch with their emotions, they did indeed seem like fine young fellows.

Well, after that curious event, we spent the rest of the afternoon painting and I must say, I managed to capture the highlights on Mrs Eagleton-Hedgley’s face rather splendidly.  We then took in some Brahms in the sun room before a supper of tenderloin with a chanterelle sauté, and finished off with the aforementioned sunset Riesling.

And then, as always, off to bed at 9:00pm on the dot with a nip of port for me and a saucer of cloves and milk for Gatsby.

And to you, my dear diary, I bid goodnight.

LHD

From: Sam (0789605890265)

Received: 12:28

Date: 08.09.11

Status: Unopened

Hey Jill, r u ok? Y didnt u turn up last night? I went 2 the house this morn but Mark said u were out and he hasn’t seen u. Where r u? Txt me x

***You missed a call at 13:00 on 08.09.11 from Sam***

***You missed a call at 13:02 on 08.09.11 from Sam***

From: Sam (0789605890265)

Received: 13:04

Date: 08.09.11

Status: Unopened

Im starting to worry. Where r u? Mark said u r not at the house. Y wont u answer ur phone? Pls txt bak. Xxxxxx

***You missed a call at 14:35 on 08.09.11 from Sam***

From: Sam (0789605890265)

Received: 17:59

Date: 08.09.11

Status: Unopened

Jill, ring me! Where r u? I just want 2 no u r ok! Mark wont speak 2 me. Has he done it again? X

From: Sam (0789605890265)

Received: 08:30

Date: 09.09.11

Status: Unopened

Jill! Pls ring me! I am worried! U can stay at mine. Pls pls ring me. X

***You missed a call at 09:33 on 09.09.11 from Sam***

***You missed a call at 09:35 on 09.09.11 from Sam***

From: Sam (0789605890265)

Received: 11:02

Date: 09.09.11

Status: Message sending failed

***Your call cannot be connected. Please hold for the answerphone***

'Sick'

So, Creative Writing assessment time has rolled around again and I've decided to be more technically adventurous! I ended up writing two pieces, both of which I'll post up here.


For the piece below, I used third person objective perspective, defined by some random on Yahoo! answers as:


'Third person, is when a story is told by a narrator not involved in the story itself.

Objective third person means the narrator only knows what someone watching would know (so they don't know people's thoughts, but rather actions and words)'


So basically, everything needs to be shown through the characters dialogue and external actions, no inner thought.


Ernest Hemingway was pretty much the dude at this, he described his technique as like an iceberg, ie. only a small part of the story is showing meaning that most of it is hidden:

See what you think...

Sick

“I look sick, do you think I look sick?”

“No, I don’t think you look sick. Why?”

“No reason. Maybe it’s the light in here.”

“Yes dear, maybe.”

She plunged her hands back into the scalding water and groped for the scourer.

“Darling?”

“Yes dear?”

“I was thinking maybe we could take a trip soon, you know, just us. Maybe go to the coast.”

“Yes, maybe.”

“Because my sister said she could have the kids and it’d be nice to have some time for just the two of us. You’ve been working such long hours recently.”

“Uh-huh.” He closed his newspaper momentarily, opening it on the next page.

“Yes, I think that would be nice.” She resumed scrubbing.

“Simon got an A in his maths test, did he tell you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Good isn’t it? I was never any good at numbers, he must get that from your side.”

“Yes, he must do.”

The water in the bowl was hot enough already, but she added more. Underneath the marigolds her hands were scarlet.

“I was thinking of getting my hair cut short, what do you think?”

“What?”

“My hair, cut short. Do you think it would look nice?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Oh I don’t know, I just fancy a change, freshen myself up a bit. I thought maybe I could get it done like that newsreader you like, what’s her name?”

He let out an exasperated sigh, “I don’t know who you mean, dear.”

“Of course you do, she’s on at 6 o’clock. She’s got glasses, and short brown hair. In her early 30s.”

“Oh yes, I know.”

“Do you think it would suit me? Make me look younger maybe?”

He glanced at her over the top of his reading glasses, “If you want to then do it, but I think your hair is fine as it is.” He went back to his newspaper.

She looked at her reflection in the window in front of her and flicked her head back to hide the lengths of her hair behind her shoulders. The overhead light wasn’t particularly flattering, it pooled on her cheekbones exaggerating the dark circles under her eyes and spotlighted her sagging jowls. She used to have beautiful skin, he used to tell her that all the time, he used to call her ‘luminous’.  It was hard to connect that girl with the middle aged woman who stared back at her from the onyx garden.

She lifted the oven dish out of the bowl and scrutinised it. It sparkled under the overhead lights but if she ran her fingers along the walls she could feel little bumps along the burn line. She pushed it back under the water and resumed rubbing.

She paused.

“Did I tell you?” she said “I saw Hamish on Monday.”

“Oh, yes?” he looked up suddenly, “Did you speak to him?”

“Just briefly, he was in a rush somewhere. Him and Heather are getting a divorce, did you know that?”

“I don’t think so, no. Well, maybe. There are so many rumours flying around the office you don’t know what to believe.”

“I suppose so.”

She inspected the dish again, it still looked greasy. Her arms were aching even though she kept transferring the sponge from one hand to the other. It may look clean but it was important to get all the bits off, if you didn’t get them off properly then they would build up gradually over time and the dish would be ruined.  

“It’s a shame really. I wonder what will happen to the kids, they’re so young”

“It’s not really any of our business.”

“No, I suppose not.” She turned over the dish and began scrubbing the bottom.

“Did you notice I’m wearing the earrings? The ones you bought me on our honeymoon.”

He glanced up “Yes, very pretty.”

“You used to say they made me look beautiful. You said you liked seeing me in them and nothing else. Do you remember?”

“That was a very long time ago.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

She turned on the tap and turned the dish beneath it. The suds parted as a curtain revealing the pristine glass beneath. Holding it in both hands she took a moment to view herself in it, her reflection appeared both radiant and distorted under the harsh kitchen lights. She rotated her body as if to place the dish on the drying rack, but then continued a little further. She looked at her husband not looking at her, before letting it tumble to the floor.

x

Barney's first bath.

Last night, Professor Barnabus von Chocolate experienced his first bath - a proper one, not just a hose down in the garden. He behaved very well but shook throughout. Below are the results:

I'm not sure about this.

Why do you do this to me?



Is it over yet?



That's better. Once I'm out of this white box of despair, you won't see me for dust.



x

Colonel Mutz

So, Mum and Mike headed off for the weekend leaving Barney in my allegedly capable hands.


It didn't go well.


Albeit, admittedly less eventful than the previous attempt, (see Christmas post), it would still be filed under U, for unsuccessful.


Barney was a mess; he would not leave his dog-cave, not for anything. I was so concerned that he was spiralling dangerously towards some sort of fatal, internal explosion due to not doing his wees and poos that I devised a plan; I would enter the house, open the garden door, go into the house (avoiding eye contact at all times) and then stand there in absolute silence looking out of the window to see if he'd go out into the garden. I thought that maybe if he thought I wasn't around, he might be brave and go out and do his business (on the concrete I might add, never on the grass, preferably under the washing line or another high traffic area). One time I actually went to the extent of opening the front door and slamming it shut, as some sort of desperate ruse. Barney, however, was having none of it.

I could  occasionally hear, but never see him, eating the doggy biscuits which I dutifully put in his bowl for him and left out treats for him. He wouldn't actually take these from my hand so I ended up just putting them in his bed next to him whilst patting him on the head, whilst he eyed me suspiciously and whined feverishly at my shockingly close proximity.

I almost fully expected him to revert back to his feral state or pull a Colonel Kurtz and go nuts. Each morning I would peer tentatively into his abode, trying to pull my best endearing/trustworthy expression whilst temptingly shaking his lead. My efforts came to no avail.

Part of me feared that one morning I'd look in and he'd be pushed right up against the back wall in the shadows with his little belly hanging out. He'd have a little bald patch, tribal face paint and sweat streaming down his face - staring at me in a deranged but enlightened manner. He'd have ripped the heads off his teddies and strung them up and maybe lit a little fire and be puffing deliriously on an opium pipe, gazing at me through the thick smoke and jungle incense whilst muttering 'The horror, the horror!'.

Luckily, Mum and Mike came back before any of this could materialise. But, I'm keeping my eyes peeled...

"He was close. He was real close. I couldn't see him yet but I could feel him, as if the boat was being sucked up river and the water was flowing back to the jungle. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn't going to be the way they called it back in Nha Trang."

x