'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.

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