Back on this hoss

I am not pleased that I have to reference previous posts to remember how I styled the other 3am exercises I posted. (Even though the answer is "not consistently enough for this one to matter".)

Today's post that I started, uh, more than a week ago, comes from the prompt regarding unreliable narrators. Unreliable third person narration, to be specific.

(Quick note on why it took me so long: it started out as a difficult exercise, then I had a week away from home, the first two days of which were so eventful that it took me 3 miles to tell my mom the story.)

In any case, unreliable narration is a tricky thing to pull off without it looking like poor continuity or sloppy editing. The book doesn't say this, but when tacking each of my two attempts (plus a third that isn't written), I had to come up with a reliable voice of authority in the story that would point out what is unreliable.

The abandoned story, that looked like it would at least triple the required 500 words, had an authority in a pair of police officers that would be the sensible counterpoint to a main character who is lit by a Mary Sue lamp with a 150 watt bulb. I'd like to finish it at some point.

Story 3 (not written) also uses cops as the authority to reveal the flaws in the narrator's story, but breaks away from my frequent use of female leads with an ensemble cast, and a primarily male one, to boot. But, again, it's a concept that would have greatly exceeded the 500 word suggestion.

Instead of either of those, here's 585/500 words that did get written, hopefully fulfilling the letter and spirit of the Unreliable Third assignment.

The dogwoods were flowering the last time Shirley held hands with her best friend. Hunter took her to Greenstead Park for a date that day. He left their house just before noon with a wink and drove around the block twice before knocking on his own front door.

"Just a minute!" Shirley hurried around the living room, looking under chairs and cushions for a missing sandal. The man outside knocked again, but she didn't give up; the wayward shoe went best with the yellow sundress she had picked out.

"Anybody in there?" Hunter called, and his date replied with a wordless call as she rushed to the front door, both feet finally shod.

Shirley opened the door and exclaimed "Daffodils! My favorite!" at the bouquet Hunter offered her. When he took her arm to lead her down the path, Hunter kept Shirley on his left side, hoping she wouldn't notice the empty, broken stems in her flower bed.

Hunter escorted his lady to the car, opened her door for her, and shut it gently one she was inside. Shirley shivered with the pleasure of being treated so well and inhaled the deep scent of the car's leather interior.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise." Hunter smiled, with his lips, with his eyes, with his soul, and put the car into gear.

As the breeze, smelling of tender growth and apple blossoms, pulled at her hair, Shirley watched the streets roll by as though for the first time. The picket fences were fresh and white. The neighbors, testing out their porches after months of hibernation, have the look of friendly strangers.

Hunter pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car in a space that knew its drips and tires well. He got out, walked around the hood to Shirley's door as she leaned forward to peer through the windscreen to the grassy fields ahead.

"Ooh, this looks lovely!" She took the hand he offered and squeezed it tight as she climbed out of the car.

She wobbled on his arm, wearing impractical shoes on unpaved paths.
He named all the children playing in the sandbox.
They doubled over laughing at the innocent humor in the outdoor puppet show.
He sweated through his shirt, pulling their rowboat across the pond.
She paid for two ruby-ripe apples when his back was turned, to stave off their hunger until they returned home.

The phone was ringing when they came through the door, wrinkling the image of Hunter carrying his lady over the threshold.

Shirley was shaking the last leaves out of her hair when Hunter returned from the den.

"I have to go to the office, Shirling. I'll be back soon." He kissed her cheek.

Shirley pulled her face into a tight smile; she understood and didn't want to make it harder for him to leave.

This time, when Hunter left, he closed the front door quietly. The click of the bolt sliding back into place echoed back and forth in Shirley's mind until it merged with the ticking of the wall clock.

It seemed like only a moment had passed when the phone shrilled for her attention, but looking around for the receiver, Shirley was surprised to see i was already dark.

Even after hanging up, she didn't reach to turn on the lamp at her elbow. Shirley lacked the strength; all her reserves were needed to keep her upright as the trunk of the many-forking, far-reaching tree that had to spread the word that Hunter's car had slipped on a patch of black ice, black as the abyss that Shirley faced.

So how obvious was it that I finished this more than a week after I started it?
And last thing before bed so I wouldn't be able to slack off with diminishing guilt for another day?

Don't get too comfortable, though. I'm on the move again starting tomorrow, so it will take a lot of effort to keep up the posting.