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.