Can anything be a narrator?

A lesson on weird POVs.

How did that Monty Python bit go… and now for something completely different.

As I finish up the final crossing of t’s and dotting of i’s on the new book, I’ve been thinking about past work. Way back when I started writing short fiction, I was experimenting with the form. Well, not so much the form, nothing like a good old Freytag’s triangle. But more so POV… and the way a story could be told. Could anyone be a narrator? Can anything be a narrator?

Every writer’s favourite shape.

Enough said, here is Overexposed (from my collection, Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry.)

Overexposed

WHEN SHE BROUGHT HOME the Eisenstaedt, my spirits were

momentarily buoyed. The truth was I’d been feeling a bit lonely. Sure, the pic

was a little over the top, but it evoked such a rush of emotion. If I’d had real

tears, instead of hydroquinone ones, I know they’d have rolled down my

cheeks and plunged into the sand. The people -- so many happy faces -- not

just the couple kissing, you couldn’t really tell with them, but every onlooker

seemed to be bursting at the seams. I’d never seen such unbridled joy in

another picture.

I tried to get some attention as soon as she placed it on the nightstand; I

waved and shouted, but they were too enraptured -- or maybe it was the

sound of the street. Cars honked, people cheered, I heard lots of whistling,

and someone sang a lilting melody.

Just then, a wave came in and the din of water rolled and crashed

behind me. I used to enjoy that sound so much. Whenever she looked upon

me, and then past me, I knew she heard it too.

One night, last month I think, she stared at me for an hour. She propped

me up on a pillow and just stared. I didn’t mind; I felt safe. I stared back --

not that she’d noticed. Her lips were full blossoms of colour. Their rich tones

like those of the two crimson orchids that hung over her bed. I noticed that

her skin wasn’t its usual smooth, olive shade and her eyes were rimmed with

lines of vermillion. One of the orchids, the bottom one, quivered.

It was an odd mixture of emotion for me. On the one hand, I felt deep

empathy for her. I wished I could burst into warm hues; maybe have a

Jamaican sunrise lift out of the water and cast glorious ripples of light across

the tiny waves. Conversely, I did enjoy all the attention. It was possible that

what she needed right now was shades of gray -- some neutral values to

show her how so much of life is gray. The black of my pants would help her

to reflect on her inner being. That sounded silly -- it must be the influence of

that framed poetry she had above her dresser before she took it down,

creased it, and tucked it in the bottom drawer.

She couldn’t hear the shore. She couldn’t feel my breath. She couldn’t

see all the individual grains as I could from within. Yet it felt wonderful to

have her eyes upon me. She traced her finger along the shoreline and I felt it

go around and over my head. My heart raced and for a moment, its pounding

overtook the sound of the water. I heard a couple of gulls, which was rare;

they were distant but their calls echoed down to me.

It all changed when the sailor showed up. That’s what I called the new

picture, ‘the sailor’, though, not at first; there was so much else going on. As

I said, I waved a lot and tried to get their attention, but they were having none

of it. So, I just let my eyes roam over the joyful scene. In the background, I

saw the outline of a drugstore and I strained to see inside, but the people

blocked the view. I yelled to a couple of them to move out of the way. No

response. I yelled louder but just then, another wave came in and drowned

out my voice. It was hopeless. Then I started to get annoyed. How long was

he going to kiss that girl? And then I thought... ‘I bet he doesn’t even know

her. What a jerk. And with everyone cheering and egging him on like that.’

“Hey, buddy, get a room!”

My jibe bounced against the thin glass. I kicked some sand and sent it

cascading down one of the edges of the horizon. My feet felt dry; grit worked

its way between my toes and across my ankles. I grabbed my pant legs and

gave them a violent shake. Tiny gray flecks became airborne with the snap.

Another wave came in.

“Enough of the damn water already!”

As if in response, the water slowed, the waves flattened into a sheer

crystal sheet, the horizon faded to white. My gentle panorama was becoming

a barren wasteland. Even the sand didn’t seem, well, sandy.

Then it happened.

I don’t know if it was my shape, she did have to edge my frame over to

fit the sailor on the stand. Or maybe it was because I’d lost the water. I

cursed myself for that, or… I couldn’t think of another reason. It couldn’t be

my lack of colour; the sailor might have had a few more tones, but hey, gray

is gray. When she picked me up, my heart jumped -- I thought I was in for

another series with the pillow. How I hoped this time, her finger would touch

a part of me. Maybe she would tousle my hair. She held me up to her gaze.

The orchids were in full bloom. I ached to tell her how I felt; how I could

make the water come back if she’d like; how I’d heard the gulls and that

maybe they’d swoop by just for her. Her breath cast a fog against the glass.

She looked different. Now that I thought of it, she had been in a much

better mood these last couple of weeks. She hadn’t bought any new pictures

for such a long time, until she came home with that damn Eisenstaedt.

Just before she opened the drawer, I glanced over to the nightstand. I

could have sworn I saw the sailor lift his head and give me a wink. S.O.B.

I slumped against the frame, unable to accept my fate. The wood slid

along the metal rails, like a train coming into the last station. I buried my face

in my knees, not that anyone would be able to see. Darkness filled my world

and I could no longer separate the colour of my pants from the silent horizon.