Destiny and Internal Monologue

buttonsThe man sits alone behind the rock, his camera jammed tight to his eye. He breathes quietly, ignoring the cramp in his left foot. The baby deer in his viewfinder stumbles a little closer and he steadies his already shaking hand. His pale blonde hair falls in his face, distracting him for a second. He shifts his camera and brushes his hair out of his face. He grins as he remembers the ridiculous amount of money he’s being payed to film this deer. “It’ll be the nature documentary of the century” his boss had said to him, back in their London office, “It’ll be bigger than David Attenbourough, more exciting than…than any other nature documentary.” And then he had sent George off to film deer in Wales.

Wales, George thought happily, had to be the easiest assignment he had ever gotten. He began to relax, reaching into his pocket for a granola bar. He settled into a more comfortable position and began eating, the deer didn’t seem to be going anytime soon. He kept the camera focused on the deer, it had settled down too and was watching a bush closely, as if it might be jumped any minute.

The deer itself was very content, it had no idea it was being filmed for the nature documentary of the year. It lay quietly in the grass, munching whatever it was he was supposed to munch and thinking about whatever it was deer were supposed to think about. It was eyeing the bush suspiciously but this not unusual for deer.

The bush itself sat quietly, wishing that George would leave so he could get up and start his day. He was a very important bush, known to his people as Grimbenthorne the Bush. He was leader of the Bush tribe and had meetings to attend and lesser bushes to boss around. Grimbenthorne rustled his leaves impatiently, he was rapidly becoming annoyed at the human who sat there filming a deer with a camera. He knew why George was here, he had heard him muttering to himself earlier. Nature documentary of the century, Grimbenthorne thought scathingly, more like the most boring thing in the history of infinity. He had no idea who would want to watch a deer sitting around, this one wasn’t even doing anything interesting. He wondered vaguely what would happen if he suddenly revealed himself to George, told him the truth about the Bush Tribe of Wales and the living bushes of England. That would be the nature documentary of the century, he thought.

George was getting bored, the deer wasn’t moving and he was still supposed to get another 2 hours of footage. He started to wish he’d gotten the African assignment, Paul was probably filming a wildebeest being eaten by a buffalo or an alligator fight, something more exciting that this. He was filming a deer watching a bush. He wished there was more tension in his life, some major event that would move him forward. He sighed and leaned back against the rock.

Grimbenthorne the Bush suddenly decided that he had had enough waiting around for this peasant to leave. He stood up, as much as a bush could stand up and walked away, deciding it would be best to not look back and to act as though this was a perfectly usual thing for a bush to do. The deer, who was becoming quite used to the bush doing this by now, gave a small start but continued eating grass.

George stared at the bush, which had started doing a weird shuffle away. He grabbed his camera and ran towards, yelling, for a lack of anything better to say, “Excuse me! Where are you going? You can’t just do that.” Grimbenthorne turned to George and said “I’ll have you know I can do whatever I want peasant!” George did not speak the language of the bushes and he merely stared at the bush as it spun around and rustled at him. He kept his camera on the bush, slowly realizing that this actually could be the nature documentary of the century. He had discovered some new life form, a bush that moved and rustled, not the most exciting creature to appear on film certainly but it was new and that was all people watching these films wanted to see. He wondered if he could persuade the bush to eat a penguin or something, people loved those kind of things.

George suddenly stopped, the camera that had been filming the bush slowly lowering to his side. Was this the right choice to make, he thought, was it wise to reveal a living bush to the world? Would it be like that film where the things were revealed and then bad things happened? George paused in his internal questioning to criticize his lack of knowledge about animal films. Perhaps it was Free Willy or Bambi, he wasn’t really sure. Moving back to his brain he continued to question himself, full of self doubts. Maybe, he reasoned, it was destiny, maybe he was in the right place at the right time and he was supposed to be filming this bush. Reaching an important internal decision he threw the camera down aggressively, destroying the footage of a living bush forever. With one last sweeping glance at the clearing he turned his back on the clearing and strode away. The deer opened one eye lazily and watched him go before falling back asleep.

If anyone had seen what he had done and the choice he had made they would have thought of George as a good human, but they hadn’t so in the eyes of the rest of the world he was merely a poor film-maker who had dropped a rather expensive camera.


The Book of Negroes Did Suck

I did not enjoy reading The Book of Negroes. This is my original “review” of it. Yes, I did send this in for grade 11 english. It was written in about 20 minutes so there’s lots of spelling mistakes.

miseryI hated this book.

The characters were miserable puppets, manipulated around solely for the entertainment of the very old and boring author who seems to never have felt a single emotion other than extreme boredom, for that was the only thing he conveyed in this book. His descriptions of peoples appearance was not unlike how a computer would describe a cold bowl of porridge and his description of places was much the same with the porridge perhaps being lukewarm. The main character, Aminita has as much depth as one of those little kiddy pools.

The basic plot seemed to be that she was in a village in Africa or Bayou or Guantanamo depending on the authors mood at the time he seemed to choose randomly from any semi warm place on the planet. She was then forced into slavery by men from America or Britain though from the authors writing it may well have been that she was put on a boat by flying martians. She sailed over to America and there was a bunch of fighting on the boat which was just an excuse for the author to kill everyone he had gotten bored with, which was, actually, every single person except for Aminita. As she arrived in America she was put to work on a cotton field or maybe indigo, at this point my brain was desperately trying to abort from my skull and my fingers had involuntarily torn my eyeballs from their sockets such as to spare them from dragging their cold lifeless selves across the page, taking in another miserable excuse for a word written by this Laurence person. Aminita worked at this indigo farm for a few years and then she had a kid with some other guy but the author had another brilliant flash of brilliance and sent her baby to Cuba and her boyfriend to Alaska or some such place. It was like killing them off but easier for him because he can bring them back in after he kills other people. She had her head shaved because she had nice hair or something and then she was bought by someone called Solomon Lindo which seems like a poor decision of Mr Lindos mother but he bought her anyways despite having the kind of name that would usually make a man spend his life hiding in his basement, sending his parents to do his shopping.

Aminita moved in with Solomon Linda and met some other people but truthfully at this point you could care less because you know they’re going to die and you`ve given up all hope of the story improving or indeed ever ending because you are only just at the beginning. You process that she does shopping and housework and then start to wonder rather wishfully that Aminita herself would die and the rest of the book is just some of those blank pages filled with copyright things. But she doesn’t die, she meets that guy who got sent to Alaska and I think she has another baby or maybe that’s later but she definitely has 2 but it isn’t really important because they both die. Anyways, Mr Lindo takes her to New York where she runs away with a bartender and lives in some boxes. You can tell that you`re supposed to feel sorry for her but instead you feel boredom and apathy settling in, your bones have turned to rubber and you can’t move because, even though you couldn’t care less about aminiata and her miserable life you feel depressed at the death of everyone and the miserable style of the writing.

Somewhere around the point you contemplate drowning yourself and the book she meets a British officer and becomes a midwife for all of their underage pregnant girlfriends. Eventually she gets offered a place on a ship that goes to Nova Scotia, a place that nobody knows, or cares anything about because it’s such a distant and lonely and pathetic sounding place that it may as well be called “Miserable foggy island of lonely hopes and lost dreams”. Her boyfriend and baby drown or get lost or something, you don’t really know or care. She arrives in Nova Scotia and I think she has another baby or maybe she found her first one. You’re usually hallucinating at this point about something more fun than reading this book, swimming in steak sauce with piranhas, bungee jumping with no bungee or just lying a cold moist dungeon for the rest of your life. Someone steals her baby and she deals with more racism by reading or something . She then goes to Africa and your eyeballs slowly head in the direction of their sockets wondering if perhaps she could return home and that this miserable book would stop. She does go to Africa and at this point she’s about 4 thousand years old but she walks back to her old village with some slavers which is a bad idea but she has no real perception so it makes sense.

She gets back to her village but it’s burned down or maybe she was just bored as heck at this point so she leaves. You begin to stop feeling miserable and depressed at this point and actually put the book down for a few minutes to wonder what possible point this story could have and if there is any way you could burn every copy of this book to spare future generation from reading the mindless drivel that is The Book of Negroes. At this point she sails to England and writes a book and then finds her daughter who has actually survived but then she just dies and you dissolve into a hopeless mess, confused as to what on earth happened, angry that you chose this book, of all books and depressed that not one character could just live.

This book will probably leave you hating white people for being slavers, Africa for being hot and too boring for Aminata, boats for being so slow, Nova Scotia for making you depressed, Lawrence Hill for using his pen to make misery itself come to you in small black characters that seep into your eyes searing their depressing misery into your retinas forever, but very most of all you will curse the people who gave prizes to this book. You will despise your friends who said it was interesting and made them think. You will tell them that surely they forget to mention what it made them think about, which was killing themselves to avoid having any memory of reading this book. You will wish plagues upon the man who awarded it the Pulitzer or whatever awful prize it got. You will wish for a thousand years of pain on the entire lineage of Laurence hill’s editor and publisher for letting his pathetic scribblings be put between two covers. They must surely have been drunk out of their neatherndthalic brains to allow it to be published or possibly depraved and raving mad from reading just the very introduction to Laurence Hill’s 500 page insane ramblings about nothing that made sense.

I Am a Bad Poet

An adaption I did of Diane Burns “Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question”


Hey, how are you?
I’m pretty good, just writing some poetry.
I don’t get this poem.
It’s like a one sided conversation.
I’d rather hear the other side of the conversation.
Does that make me a bad poet?
What if the other person’s thoughts are more interesting?
Rather than being judged and stereotyped
there would be judgement.
And stereotyping.

Would that make you think more?
Would we judge people so fast?
Or would your eyes just glaze over these words.
Reading them but not taking them in
Because you don’t care
Because I’m a bad poet.


I am the Poet.

I love poetry assignments for school. This is the response I write to any poem, it has very good poetry words and sounds pretty.


This poem was very image rich, I felt as if I could see everything the author described. He had a really good way of using imagery and descriptive terms and I think it worked well in this poem. This poem seemed very average in most aspects, it was a short image rich poem but there wasn’t much that set it apart from other poetry.

I also write poems – everything I write is free verse with a bit of no capitilazation.

A tree stands in the tundra.
Alone amongst the elk.
Black against the snow.
And we will never see
this tree
because it doesn’t exist
and this poem is the best you will get.

I Refuse To Do What You Tell Me


I know what you want.

You want me to understand,

You want me to show you that I know what Hamlet’s soliloquy means.

I understand but do I really want to show you?

Is it really better to finish assignments the way I am supposed to

What if I could do it differently, in my own way and have it come out better;

Maybe you would love it and think I am a great writer;

I might get full marks and be praised for being such a creative individual.

Then again, you might hate it.

You could want me to do this the proper way, taking his poem and adapting it;

Write it as a country song or a nursery rhyme.

Is that the right thing to do – If I didn’t like it but you did;

Would I rather have good marks or good writing?

What if I failed the course, then would it be worth it?

What is it we are even afraid of;

A number, assigned to our writing and to us.

Or am I a coward, afraid to voice my true thoughts for fear of a bad mark

Are we all cowards – hiding behind false words?

Faking our responses and emotions just to get five percent more;

Isn’t that an easy way out?

Turning Shakespeare into country songs and rhymes

Rewording his play to be a gangster rap

Is that really creative writing?

Everytime You Get to The Movie Late


Death was ushered into the theatre, a sliver of light slipping through the open door and illuminating the crowd for a few seconds. He paused for a minute by the seat nearest the back, staring at the back of everyone’s heads. The movie kept going, the changing light and colours playing on the crowd’s faces and casting strange shadows all over the theatre. Death started forwards down the stairs, stepping as quietly as he could. A few heads turned his way but quickly turned back to the movie. Nobody heard his footsteps but more and more people started to look his way, quickly averting their eyes once he drew level with them.

Death’s seat was at the front and the people in the first few rows shivered before they even saw him. He came to the bottom row and turned, his frame blocking the screen until he sat down. The girl on his right shrank away, placing her bucket of popcorn between them as a feeble barrier. The group of teenagers on his left were more aggressive, staring at the huge being who had taken the empty seat beside them, ending their whispered conversation with the popcorn girl and filling the seat they had been using to store their jackets. They muttered to each other, energetic from cheap soda and energy drinks, debating whether the three of them could win in a fight. Death said nothing but silently stared at the screen and the boys soon gave up their staring. The older people sitting behind Death shivered, wondering if he had come for them, if it was their time, here in this old movie theatre watching the latest summer blockbuster.

Gradually as the movie progressed people relaxed, deciding that Death was not here for them but they were still anxious, wondering who he was here for. Yet none of them needed to worry at all for Death was not here to end any lives. He was here to watch a movie.

A Very Boring Story With Enormous Wings

One of those “read and respond” assignments for school. The short story was A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings and I had to answer the question How does the church respond to the very old man and why? I decided to do it without reading the story at all. I still haven’t gotten past the first paragraph of Gabriel’s story so I’m not sure how accurate this is.

This is an old man

In Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s short story, A Very Old man with Enormous Wings there is an old man with a large set of wings. In this story there is a part in which the church ‘responds ‘ in some form to this man. I found it difficult to extract the true meaning of the churches response, it was so deeply buried in layers of metaphorical and imagery rich writing. The general tone of the church’s response was very clear and dramatic – the message of inevitable death and futility of life was a well made, if unoriginal point. The underlying magical realism theme was very well presented. To me the church’s response had a very personal note, I could identify with both the old man and the church as they both made very good points.

The reason the church responded to the man was very forced – the story would have been lacking if it didn’t respond and it felt like the author was really forcing his writing at times. Realistically a church’s response would have been very short but the author dragged it out for a while. I think it could have been better if the church had more a reason to respond that wasn’t just to add to the story. Maybe the church could have been extremely lonely and needing somebody to talk to – I think that would have made the church’s response seem much more believable.

You can read the story here courtesy of