The Terra Nova.

So, Edgar Evans was in fact the first person from Scott's crew to pass away on the expedition. He had cut his hand tending to a sleight and suffered from frostbite and exhaustion. Just before his death, he was described as turning mad - perhaps from the stress, illness or a fall. Here's an exerpt from Scott's diary:

"Saturday, February 17 - A very terrible day. Evans looked a little better after a good sleep, and declared, as he always did, that he was quite well. He started in his place on the traces, but half an hour later worked his ski shoes adrift, and had to leave the sledge. The surface was awful, the soft recently fallen snow clogging the ski and runners at every step, the sledge groaning, the sky overcast, and the land hazy. We stopped after about one hour, and Evans came up again, but very slowly.

Half an hour later he dropped out again on the same plea. He asked Bowers to lend him a piece of string. I cautioned him to come on as quickly as he could, and he answered cheerfully as I thought. We had to push on, and the remainder of us were forced to pull very hard, sweating heavily. Abreast the Monument Rock we stopped, and seeing Evans a long way astern, I camped for lunch. There was no alarm at first, and we prepared tea and our own meal, consuming the latter.

After lunch, and Evans still not appearing, we looked out, to see him still afar off. By this time we were alarmed, and all four started back on ski. I was first to reach the poor man and shocked at his appearance; he was on his knees with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes. Asked what was the matter, he replied with a slow speech that he didn't know, but thought he must have fainted. We got him on his feet, but after two or three steps he sank down again. He showed every sign of complete collapse. Wilson, Bowers, and I went back for the sledge, whilst Oates remained with him.

When we returned he was practically unconscious, and when we got him into the tent quite comatose. He died quietly at 12.30 A.M. On discussing the symptoms we think he began to get weaker just before we reached the Pole, and that his downward path was accelerated first by the shock of his frostbitten fingers, and later by falls during rough travelling on the glacier, further by his loss of all confidence in himself. Wilson thinks it certain he must have injured his brain by a fall.

It is a terrible thing to lose a companion in this way, but calm reflection shows that there could not have been a better ending to the terrible anxieties of the past week. Discussion of the situation at lunch yesterday shows us what a desperate pass we were in with a sick man on our hands at such a distance from home."

Taken from: http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/scott.htm

The Terra Nova expedition had been gifted many things by wellwishers, including coal, cigars, plum puddings (?) and even a piano. In this piece I am describing a woman being shown around the ship before deperature (as they often were), and standing at the piano. I have used the piano as a metaphor for the declining mental state of Evans, who is with her at that time:


The Piano Man

“The wood will warp, sat out in the elements like this,” she thought, “the moist conditions will wreck it.” It’ll look the same, of course, on the outside but the workings will deform. The ice will work into its belly and fatten the dampeners, and the frost will make the strings creep.

The effect will be gradual of course, changing ever so slightly over time. Getting almost imperceptibly flatter and flatter until one day it’ll sound so horribly out of tune that you’ll wonder how you hadn’t picked up on it before. You don’t notice these things though, not until the string is stretched so tight that it’s likely to snap at any moment.

She felt sorry for this piano.

She took off a glove, ran her hand over the varnished mahogany, before lifting up the fall and pressing a key.

The note sounded out, as clear as a bell. A nearby pony looked up lazily from its hay, regarding her with its listless eyes before returning to his meal.

She looked up at him; a big oaf in a sailor outfit, smiling down at her.

“You like the piano, miss?” he said.

“Yes, very much so,” she answered, before gently shutting its lid.

                                                                    x

'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

Surf's up?

Today, I went for a surf. I have not been for a surf for aggggges. I decided to take in the fish as it looked teeny and windy, this turned out to be a very good idea. Got a few ok waves but I really wish I had worn my hood in as it was bloody freezing!

This is me with the fish hybrid board when I first bought it in Mount Manganui, NZ in.....2008? Wow, that seems like ages ago now!

Now it is completely mangled, yellow and dinged. There's a huge dent in the bottom where I broke my collarbone on it! It still rides pretty well though considering...

Is anyone actually interested in surfing? Shall I put some pictures up of my newer boards? Needless to say, I got better and went smaller and shorter.

I keep this one as my fail-safe, wave guarantee-er. It rides almost like a shortboard but it fat and buoyant enough to catch waves easily. Booooooooring.

Here's some creative writing to take your mind off it...


So this piece was intended as an extended metaphor. It's meant to have birdlike references throughout and the interaction between the two characters was supposed to represent two sparring birds of paradise...

Pecking Order

This is Jim’s favourite table. He always sits here because it provides him with a good view of her. However, he always dines alone, hunched over the plate, skinny neck bulging as he swallows, head snapped back to open the gullet. His avian eyes flick anxiously from side to side, as if to scan for predators on the peripheral.

A man approaches. Jim looks up, regarding him warily.

‘Can I?’ says the man, gesturing to the packed canteen and then to the empty seat.

Without waiting for a response, the man starts lowering himself into the chair.

‘Well, well yes. I suppose so.’ Jim says, choking on his latest mouthful. He doesn’t appreciate the invasion. He pulls his plate in closer and continues pecking.

 ‘Great, cheers.’ The man says.

He lets himself fall into the seat, exhales and loosens his flashy, red tie. He pushes the chair back at an oblique angle, he likes to face his audience.

He opens his sandwiches and tears off a bite.

‘Nice phone.’ The man says in between mouthfuls. ‘Is that the 480?’

‘Yeh’ Jim says.

‘I used to have one of those. I’ve got the 600 now. These haven’t even been released in the UK yet, a mate hooked me up.’

The man slides his gloriously pretentious phone in between them. He leans back, puffs out his chest, stretches his elongated legs underneath the table.

‘Oh sorry, did I kick you then?’ he says. But he doesn’t retract the legs.

Jim looks down from his plate to the premium leather loafers, which are quite obviously and categorically encroaching on his personal space, and then back up to the man. The man is otherwise engaged ogling the room, the women specifically, his wandering eyes rolling around in his big, fat head. The women glance back, giggling coquettishly and primping their feathers. With a withering crush, he notices that even she is looking back.

Jim glares at him. This intruder, who chews with his mouth open and wears too much aftershave. With every speck of his whole he is willing this gate crasher out of his territory.

The man throws back the last of his sandwich and flings the empty box onto the table. It slides across and hits Jim’s plate. Jim balks, seething in silence. The man doesn’t notice, he’s too busy checking his hair in the shiny surface of his stupid phone.

‘Anyway, cheers for that.’  The man says insincerely, standing up and brushing off the crumbs. He doesn’t push his chair back in, leaving it standing ludicrously far away from the table. He struts off, whistling loudly.

Jim surveys his previously pristine habitat - the crumbled sandwich pack, the half chewed crusts, the unmoored chair, the lingering stench of cologne.

 ‘What a cock.’ Jim thinks.