Robin Hood Review *SPOILERS*

Lately I have really gotten into a show called Robin Hood. As you can expect, it's based on the classic character of Robin Hood and the sheriff of Nottingham. The interesting thing is, I've read a Robin Hood book. I'm quite certain that it's not the original tale, since I enjoyed reading it and found it very easy to follow. (The original would likely be in middle English with all the thou's and thee's) Anyway, onto the review.

First off, I have to say that I love all the actors. They are amazing at playing their characters. The main actor, Jonas Armstrong, who plays Robin Hood is simply brilliant. He has the perfect amount of wit, charm and emotions to pull it off. Lucy Griffiths, who plays Maid Marian, is stunning in both looks and acting. Everyone else is great, each one very fluent and trained when it comes to the fighting scenes (Though they may have stunt doubles for that) and just plain amazing. My only complaint may be the over acting of the man who plays the Sheriff, though I'm sure that's just the script. He's an amazing actors, kind of like an older Jim Carrey, but I just feel like his humour and personality don't fit the time period that it's set in.

The show is three seasons long, and unfortunately is off the air now. But since it's impossible to make a show that long based off of one small book, they obviously had to add scene and character that were not from the original books. Normally that would annoy me, but I think they did a fine job with it. The first season is clearly a trial run. They don't stick to any story lines, and keep each episode as a stand alone. In other words, the fifth episode will have nothing to do with the sixth. In the second season and so far in the third, this isn't the case. Every episode relates back to another episode, so it's all tied up better. They even used from references back to the first season.

As I mentioned, they don't stick firmly to the original plot that I read in the book. However, they have the three main characters (Robin Hood, Maid Marian and the Sheriff) along with the smaller characters (Allen of Dale, Will Scarlet, Brother Tuck and Little John), then they add a few that were never mentioned in the book (Guy of Gisborn, Jack, Much, some random guy that died after a few episodes...) I can ever recognize some episodes in the show that happened in the book (The contest for the silver arrow, Little John getting captured)

All in all, it's one of my favourite shows. I'll be pretty bummed when I reach the end, since I know there won't be any more episodes. But that's when I find myself a new favourite show!

Ode to the Penny

((As many of you may know (especially those who work as cashiers), the penny is going out of circulation as of February first. They actually stopped making them in May 2012, but soon they will be no longer used. So, I wrote a poem.))

Do you know how long

you have in this world?

Can you count the

days until the end?

It’s almost here,

but you cannot feel a thing.

Do you recall May 2012?

It was the beginning

of your end.

But still I feel that you

will not go without a fight.

Hundreds of millions of your

copper-bodied kin

will roam the country

for centuries.

Like your ancestors

you will be replaced,

forgotten in time.

But for now we

Will remember.

We will continue to

pick you up off the street,

claim you as our own

and store you away for later.

And when we have a hundred

you will still be no more

than just one.

February first will be

your Doomsday.

You will wander from

hand to hand, searching

for a home forever.

And for forever you

will rust away as pig food.

Farewell, fond friend.

You served us well,

but the country is better

with less change.

Nightmares...

I'm really tired right now, because I was woken up at 6 this morning by another bad dream. I tried getting back to sleep around 7, and I even managed to doze off around 8:30, but none of it really helped. To top it off, I have a stomach ache. So, I'm not really in the mood for anything creative or fun, so here is a small piece of dialogue I wrote. It was an assignment for my Introduction to Writing Children's Literature class, and it goes along with the story I posted on Wednesday, but I never included the dialogue into the story.

At Christmas dinner, Toby stomped down the stairs, dressed up in his cardboard box suit of armor.

“Well, don’t you look adorable, Mr. Robot.” his aunt cooed when she noticed him.

“I’m not a robot,” Toby complained, “I’m a knight!”

“Oh, of course, I was just messing with you.” she grinned and reached over to ruffle his blond hair.

“Knights don’t like being messed with.” Toby scowled and put a hand on his paper towel roll sword.

“But I’m your aunt; I’m allowed to mess with you.”

“Knights don’t have family.” Toby replied gravely.

“They don’t? What happened to them?” she asked, her eyes lit up in amusement.

“They were captured. It’s why they become knights, to have revenge.” a grimace twisted Toby’s lips.

“Well then, how about I become your adoptive aunt?” she suggested.

Toby thought about it for a moment, looking suspiciously up at her, “Only if you don’t mess with me.”

“I swear, I won’t mess with you.”

“And only if you don’t touch my hair.”

“I swear, I won’t touch your hair.”

Toby grinned and nodded. “Okay, deal.” he held out his hand to confirm it.

His aunt nodded and shook his hand.

Playground Hero

((Here is the beginning of my short story for my Introduction to Writing Children's Literature. It's supposed to be a picture book, but luckily my professor isn't requiring us to include pictures. In other words, it's meant for ages 5-8.))

At the age of seven, Toby had more energy than any other kid in his class. He did everything with enthusiasm. In the morning he would spring out of bed, hop around his room as he got dressed, and then race down stairs to gobble up his breakfast.

            “Chew before swallowing, Toby.” His mom would say with a laugh.

            At school he was always the first to raise his hand, and he was so detailed in his work that he was always the last to finish. He loved learning and going to school, but his favourite activity started when he got home.

            Every day at three o’clock, Toby would turn the TV on to his favourite show about knights and heroes. Using an empty paper towel roll as a sword, he copied the knights’ movements exactly. Cut to the left, cut to the right, up, down, diagonally, crash!

            “Toby, did you break something?” His mom called from the other room.

            “No!” He said quickly as he used his foot to brush the broken vase under the couch.

            “Are you sure?” She asked as she entered the room.

            “Maybe.” He looked down guiltily.

            “You know, a knight never lies.”

            “It was an accident.” He said quickly as he glanced toward the sofa then back to his mom. “Knights don’t get grounded either, right?”

            From then on all breakables were kept away from Toby and the reach of his sword.

            As the months passed and Christmas got closer Toby knew exactly what he wanted to ask Santa for. He always got what he asked for at Christmas and hoped it would be no different this year. On December twenty fourth, Toby went to bed dreaming of long gleaming swords with jewels in their hilts and noble knights upon pure white steeds that pranced through the snow.

           

            The next morning Toby woke up at six and tip toed down the stairs.

            Squeak… Squeak… Squeak… went every step until he reached the bottom. Tucked into the corner of their living room was the Christmas tree, and under it Toby spotted a long, thin present. His fingers twitched in excitement and he ran back up the stairs, squeaksqueaksqueak and into his parent’s room.

            “One more hour.” They told him, and he moped back downstairs.

At exactly seven o’clock, Toby was allowed to open his presents. He reached for the long thin one first and tore it open. Inside was a foot long wooden sword. The edges were blunt and there was not a speck of colour on it, but he grinned from ear to ear and ran around the house waving his new sword around his head.

            “Don’t hurt yourself!” His mom called after him, but of course he wouldn’t. He was a knight, and knights never hurt themselves with their own swords.

Consumed

((For my poetry class, we have to write a poem in someone else's voice. My friend suggested Edgar Allan Poe, and I think it turned out very well.))

Upon the night two days before last

as I shambled to get water in my glass,

a sudden compulsion overtook my mind

and I swayed in an arc to return from where I came.

With my pen upon my desk I sat

and to the sound of the scratch my mind wandered.

Free of the bonds I looked down and beheld

my body shackled in the chair and that to absolution.

A shell, a shadow, a specter of my surreal self.

Following the followers to survive in monotony

break away to be consumed by the Muses

and through them our blood forms the words

in scarlet letters upon the parchment.

My hand is the tool shadowing the pattern

set out by Them for us all to chase after.

My eyes are blind to the corrupt within,

but I see from within that I cannot escape.

These manacles I forge with every word

and every thought that I think is my own.

I write my death and feel not a thing;

not anguish, nor acrimony or agitation.

I simply write until the blood in my fingers

runs like a red river.

((And as usual, I claim copyright.)) 

My Dog is Part Chicken

Oh man, I nearly forgot about my blog today, sorry 'bout that. I'm just going to do another quick list.

Things My Dog is Afraid Of

1) My dad (Or men in general)
This one is actually quite sad. My dog is a rescue dog, and she was abused when she was a puppy. For the first year we had her, she would barely ever get close to my dad. Even now, when he stands up she runs from the room... Maybe because she's expecting him to give her a treat or something. But she's pretty shy around any guests that she doesn't recognize, especially if they're men.

2) Drains
We found this one out a couple years ago, then it just went away for a few months. It seems to have come back a couple months ago though. For some reason my dog is afraid of drains. We suspect that one time when she escaped from the house she might have gotten her paw stuck in the grating, but that doesn't explain why she was suddenly fine with them for a while.

3) Heights
It's adorable and sad at the same time. There is a foot bring on a trail not far from my house. If we want to go over it, we literally need to pull my dog across. When we go across the car bridge, she's a little better, probably because she can cower against the barrier between the road and the side walk.

4) Ice
I just found out about this one today. While on a walk with her and my parents, my dad tried to pull her down to the lagoon, which was frozen over. She wouldn't come within five metres of it. When it's not frozen, she will be more than happy to come down, but she was freaked out by the ice.

5) The dark
This one isn't confirmed yet, but she will rarely be in a room with no lights. She's almost eleven now, and we think he eyesight is beginning to go, so she probably can't see very will in the dark anymore.

And I'm sure there are plenty more, but I can't remember any at the moment. My dog is basically scared of half the things in the world, but the top five are the biggest for her.

Misplaced Memories

((Today I will post a poem for my advanced poetry writing class. It's supposed to be addressed to someone, sort of like a letter, in poem form.))

Do you remember me?

Do you remember the car you loved or your favourite candy?

Can you recall the names of all your children, or who your husband was?

Do you know where you are or how to speak English?

Do you remember me?

I remember.

I am your youngest grandchild.

You used to drive an olive green Buick Regal

that swallowed you up in its massive body,

And every time we visited you

there would be a bowl of Swedish Berries waiting for my sister and me.

You have four children; Per-Henrik, Gunilla, Bjorn and Solvig,

and your husband died many years ago in Sweden.

You held my dad’s hand as you walked down the path to the funeral.

You’ve lived in the West Vancouver Care Centre for two years now,

I stand by your bed every time I visit, and you smile up at me without recognition.

You spoke nearly flawless English, though you said ‘polka nuts’ instead of ‘polka dots’.

I loved your thick Swedish accent, even if I could barely understand you.

Now you speak in ‘Swinglish’, of outrageous tales

and million dollar boats.

I am your youngest grandchild.

I was scared of your monster of a car and ate half the berries when I came over.

I am the daughter of your third child and granddaughter of your forgotten husband.

I try to visit you every two weeks, and I speak no more than five words of Swedish.

I wish you would remember me.

Fire Blind

((Last night I finished the first draft of my short story for my Speculative Fiction class. It's about 12 pages long, so I'm not going to post it all here, but I will post the first couple pages.))

Dear Reader,

            If you are in possession of this story, it means I have escaped. And I’m sure by the time you have started reading this, you’ve heard the tales of Nadalia the Rebel, or Nadalia the Cunning. Maybe even Nadalia the brave. From all great events come great stories, and always written by the victor. Unfortunately, at this time, I cannot tell you who the victor is. I can, however, tell you that these stories are false.

            I did not start out for fame or recognition, or to prove myself as a female in a man’s role. There was only one thing I wanted; freedom. Ironic, as I have obtained the very opposite. I can only hope now that my people have followed my lead and risen up against Him. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

            Long before I was born, my people settled the land isolated between to large mountain ranges. They gave us partial protection from the sun, and the thick clouds from the storms that rolled in from the south provided the rest of the protection. Even now my race is dwindling, so I suppose you may not have heard of us. We call ourselves the Shadow Walkers. Humans and other being fear us, and for good reason. They fear the darkness, and we are simply an extension of it. We blend in perfectly, with every aspect of our appearance being black, from the hair on our heads to the nails on our toes. Even when we grow old and come close to death, we simply fade. Without the darkness, we become weak and lose years off our lives. When those years are up, a Shadow Walker will find a spot in complete darkness, and stop existing. I can imagine it would be hard for a human to understand, and what they cannot comprehend, they fear. So they lit of their cities. They brought in powerful mages to keep the lanterns burning, all day and all night, and worked people to death in the coal mines to provide fuel for thousands of fires. They even tried to cover up their fear with mockery by giving us the name Darklings. We were driven out of the great cities, where we used to have a haven in the dark alleys and basements of homes.

            Out in the open we were vulnerable, and eventually we scattered off into groups to protect our race. Some went to the great forests in the East, and it’s said they joined with the ancient spirits of the trees. Others went south to the storm islands, but they soon died of starvation from lack of cultivated land. A few even ventured north to the great ice sheets, but no one has heard from them in centuries. My people went West, their spirits uplifted by the mountains that provided a natural barrier to human settlement.

            They lived peacefully for two centuries, and a new generation came along to bolster our population. I had only turned one hundred and sixty three when the first human came. I and the other children found him very amusing. He brought with him mages and knights and beautiful ladies. They seemed interested in us too, but our elders refused to let our races mingle. They told us the stories of the horrors that humans had put us through, and gradually the children lost interest in the human. He never forgot about us though.

            He lived away from us, in a large house hastily built into the side of the mountain to the East. From our town we could see the smoke from multiple fireplaces curling upward to meet the low hanging clouds. One time the smoke had been so thick and black it could only mean that the house was on fire. When the human’s men came to ask for assistance, all we could do was point them toward the lake we got our fish from. The children, who had never been exposed to fire, were curious to see what it looked like. Those that were not being carefully watched by their parents were able to sneak off. They came staggering back the next morning, their skin so translucent that even we almost mistook them for shadows. There were great patches of their skin that remained solid and dark though, and upon closer inspection, it was decided they were burns, something the elders had only seen on humans. It didn’t take long for the children to curl up in a corner of their home and vanish into the shadows. It was the first time in our community that a Shadow Walker had died from a human wound.

((And as usual, I claim copyright. Even if you wanted to steal this, you don't have the rest of the story...

It would also be great if I could get peoples' opinions. I don't like the title, so any suggestions for that would be great.))

Respect

I've been meaning to make a post about this for a while, so here it is: A list of all the people I respect for what they do are who they are.

1) Drivers.
Simply those that drive as a career, whether they're bus drivers, taxi drivers or even parents. I recently started learning how to drive, and I hate it. I find it difficult to get into first gear and I'm constantly stalling or burning out. I also find it very stressful and after only half an house I get out of the car and I'm shaking. So anyone who is able to do that every day for several hours, in good or bad conditions and often with rude people, has earned my respect.

2) Cashiers
This means any cashiers, whether it's for retail, food industry or any other job. When I work, I'm most often on cash register, and I'm lucky that it's not too busy and our customers are almost always easy to serve and very polite. I cannot image working somewhere like McDonalds, where it's always busy and many rude and unbearable customers visit every day. So good job for all those people who can handle stressful jobs like that on a regular basis.

3) Teachers
I know a lot of people think that being a teacher would be easy, and that they are all overpaid, and perhaps for some people that' true. If you find teaching to be easy, then maybe you won't have the same view as I do. However, I am terrible at explaining anything, so the thought of teaching anyone, especially little kids who have to be taught the very basics, is a rather daunting task for me.

4) Writers
You knew this would have to show up eventually, right? Well of course I respect writers. They appear to live a very care-free easy life, no offices to go to every day, no early mornings, getting to make their own work schedule. Of course they have deadlines to meet though, and even more important, thousands of fans to please. Then there are the tours and book signings, which they have to be friendly and cheerful for. Honestly, I think I would snap after even two hours of signing... Not to mention my signature is terrible...

5) Stay at home mom's/dad's
I'm not a big fan of kids, so it's natural that I would respect anyone who stays home all day, or even tries to run errands, with a kid. Now I know kids can be a lot of fun and adorable at times, but they can also be horrible, screaming crying spawns of the devil, especially when they're young.

Me and Her

They call me Pale

                They call her porcelain.

They call me boney

                They call her skinny.

They call me nerdy

                They call her smart.

They call me boring

                They call her mature.

They call me sarcastic

                They call her funny.

They call me shy

                They call her cute.

And she is me and I am her

And they are friends

And they are family

And they are haters

And they are lovers

And they are me and her.

((Just a super quick poem I thought up while on the bus. For the record, the first part is roughly based on me, but exaggerated. I wanted to show that even if you're called things such as pale, boney, nerdy or anything like that, there's always a good side to it. And also that you can be the very one to be calling yourself these bad things, but you will also be the one calling yourself the good names too.

Finally, please don't take this poem, it's mine and I want to keep it mine.))

Canine Companion

Since I've started school again, this semester with three creative writing courses, I'm going to have a lot more writing-based posts, the first one of which is going to be today! Now I have to add that it's not finished, and it's far from being revised. It's something for my Advanced Poetry class, called a Prose Poem. Basically it's a very pretty paragraph. I also want to ask that no one gives me advice or suggestions on how to finish or revise this poem. I want to do the first draft all by myself, without any help. After I've had it workshopped in class, then go ahead, tell me everything that's on your mind. If you want, you can tell me if you loved or hated it, but that's all.

The best way to take a walk is with a strong-willed dog. She tugs me in the direction she wishes to go, and I freely follow, past the houses of old friend and new strangers. Up the shallow hill, along the lengthy road and across the broken sidewalk to the dank, dark forest, where the dog daringly proceeds without delay, and I delightedly tail after. Under the canopy of evergreen branches and dead winter trees, fat drops of rain worm their way through green needles and brown leaves to hit the target of my head. My dog pulls onward, stopping here and there to sniff a fern or a bush, and with a sudden sharp tug on the leash, we’re off again. I want to run, to watch the old dog playfully prance like a young puppy, to let her dance in a mud puddle as if it were a hot summer day. However, near the end she grows too tired, and trots slowly along by my side, acting like the obedient dog we never trained her to be. But although her flame has faded, it fans up again at the sight of a fellow dog. As she snaps and growls, I smile politely at the owner, say a hello and apologize for her jealous fury. They smile back in understanding and we part ways as slightly more than new strangers.

And of course, this is my work, so don't take it and claim it as your own. Actually, I would appreciate it if you didn't take it at all, even if you do give me credit.


Oh! I also want to say happy 1,000 views to my blog! Thanks to everyone who reads my tales and rants. It really encourages me to continue writing.

Good Week, Good Life

It's hard to believe I can actually be having a good week, as it's the start of school. As I said in my last post, my first day went pretty well. Yesterday was my second day, and I had Europe in the High Middle ages (Where the only thing I remember is that they ate a shit ton of bread), and Speculative Fiction, which is a creative writing class for things like sci fi, fantasy, those type of things. It was a lot of fun, and I think I'll like the class and the people in it. The only problem is that we're not allowed to write chapters or small parts of novels. We actually have to write a short story with a beginning, middle and end. Now I can easily do the beginning, but I feel like I need more then seven pages to get a whole story down, especially for fantasy fiction. But we'll see how it goes.

Today I only had one class, which was Introduction to Writing Children's Literature. I must say, I think it's been my favourite class so far, even though I know I'm going to struggle to come up with an idea for a picture book... My writing isn't exactly ideal for kids ages 4-8... However, next week we have to bring in our favourite picture books from when we were younger. I wanted to bring in three (The Monster at the End of the Book, Mister Got to Go and A Coat of Many Colours) but unfortunately I cannot seem to find the latter one, so it looks like it'll just be the first two.

I also have the best news I have heard all year. My favourite author, Brandon Sanderson, is coming back to my city to do a book signing for A Memory of Light, which is the final book in the Wheel of Time series. I was worried that I might have to miss a day of school to go see him, but it ends up the day falls right in the middle of my reading break. Even better, it's on February 14th, so I finally have plans for Valentines Day... Which is fairly sad, but honestly, I would rather go to a book signing than have a boyfriend. *pushes up nerd glasses*

Winter 2013: Day One

Today was my first day of classes for this semester, so I guess I'll do a really quick post on how it went. Fair warning though, it wasn't as exciting as last semester. My parents are home, and my sister was even home for the day to take care of my dog.

My first classes is American Literature: WWII and after, which starts at 12:30. It's a third year course, even though I'm still technically in my second year. I was told that it'll be hard, since my friend has already had the professor for a second year course. However, the course seems a lot like my Children's Literature class, so I think I'll be able to handle it. The books are quite a bit thicker, but we also have about three or four weeks to talk about them, which in Children's Literature we only had a week or two for each book. Unfortunately, after buying all the books and the course package, I spent about $124.00 on just that one class.

My second class of the day, Advanced Poetry Writing, starts at 2:30, ten minutes after American Literature ends, and just happens to be all the way across the school. I think it'll be fine though, since I know exactly where the classroom is. So we met today, and my professor was apologizing for the school making us come back on the second of January. Because of this, she's giving us Monday off. That means I'll be in school less than a week before one of my classes is already cancelled. It's also because it's a workshop class, and on Monday we'll have nothing to workshop, so don't start thinking that we're slackers and wasting our money.

When I left and was halfway to the skytrain station, I realized I had not picked up my transit pass from the college, so I had to pay using my change. Very frustrating, but I picked it up at the second campus, closer to my house. I really should figure our where the machines are that give out passes at the campus I'm at now...

And lastly, I've been looking for used copies of my textbooks to save some money. I got lucky this semester, and I only have one textbook over a hundred dollars. I might be able to get that one for $40 through Chapters, I just need to make sure it's actually the textbook I need.

Post New Years celebrations

Since New Years Eve was last night, I am very tired. I didn't sleep well because someone was snoring, and it normally just takes me forever to fall asleep. So I think I might have fallen asleep around 4:30 this morning... All in all, I am exhausted, and for some reason my keyboard is being stickier than usual, so my grammar and spelling may be a little off at the moment.

And for the record, I didn't get drunk. I had one cider and stopped, mostly because I don't like the taste of alcohol, and I don't want to make a fool of myself. So to make it clear, I am tired, not hung over.

Now, because I am feeling utterly non-creative today, I'm doing to dive into my list of blog questions I got from some website...

One thing that has always fascinated you

Well, quite clearly I have always been fascinated with fantasy fiction. I cannot honestly say I was always fascinated by books, since in elementary school they make you record what you read and answers questions. Reading was like homework, so naturally I didn't like it.

But actually, many things fascinate me, whether it's a pattern of pretty colours or a spectacular, once in a life time event. I can be entertained simply by looking up at the stars and moon. Perhaps the thing that has fascinated me most is writing. Not exactly on paper or on the computer, but just simply writing in my head, coming up with scenarios and stories, but never actually having the chance to write them down. I like to think of it as an advanced form of daydreaming...