Scribbles

I shall add to this page as and when, but for now here are two little scribbles I had about first person narratives, describing themselves via a mirror or a photo. This is often considered lazy writing but I think it has its place. Especially because in first person we don't tend to ever "see" ourselves.

These writings are first drafts and unconnected to any current stories.

The Photograph

I ran my finger across the man’s face and smiled. Such memories trapped in celluloid and framed against the ravages of time. He was so young, standing in his uniform but even the sepia tones could not hide the strength and passion of his bright blue eyes staring out across the decade. His physique was tall and broad only marred by a woman hanging off his arm. Her apologetic slouch marred his height as she tried to diminish her own. Her hat was ugly, most hats of that time were, but she seemed to have gone out of her way to find the most disagreeable. Mercifully it concealed her hair that fizzed and kinked in a beige blanket pulled back by a cotton tie.

Looking at him again I could see his skin was unblemished and tanned. A man who worked and fought in the fields. His lips were still but from the creases by his eyes you could see he was dying to laugh. The crow beside him looked into the camera, haughty and aloof.

Mary walked in from the kitchen with two cups of tea. She hands me a cup and takes the picture from me placing it back on the mantelpiece.

‘I love that picture of you two. You were so gorgeous. I bet Dad couldn’t believe his luck.’

The Mirror

I sat and looked at the mirror. It was monstrous large, intricately carved and then smothered in gold leaf. Behind me, the room was similarly furnished. Huge damask curtains in red bled down the side of the windows, revealing manicured park lands beyond. Pristine green lawns were a marked contrast to the gold flock wallpaper within. Many chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystal drops reflecting rainbows onto the various other mirrors in my chamber.

I watched miserably as the staff was fussing back and forth assembling brushes, some for my face, others, for my clothes, more for my hair. So far no one had approached me and why would they? I was a tiny grey cipher sat perched on my chair, my feet swinging freely, awaiting their primping.

Only when I showed a visage that matched the rest of the mirror’s reflection would they depart. Like a flock of jewelled canaries they would leave in a flurry of giggles ready for their morning’s gossip and flirtations. I doubt I, their princess, would even be mentioned.