By Alfie Hardman
The China Bull Dog
We’ve been doing creative writing workshops with Caz. For this part we were given an object, in my case a little china bull dog. We then had to spend 20 minutes crafting a story out of it. Here’s what I came up with… By no means is this the final draft but I would like to continue writing short stories as I reckon it will only do good for my copy.
The china bull dog that lived under the stairs under the stairs had lost its shine. A thin layer of dust clung to it giving the overall colour of the animal a dulled down feel.
Apart from the chip on its right black nostril, the eye that wasn’t straight and the 99p tag strung firmly to its left paw, it was in a healthy condition. Its other eye seemed to look drunkenly upwards as if expecting a final blow that would shatter it forever.
Truth was nobody even cared to do that. Nobody cared at all.
Signs that it had been loved way, way, way back were evident. There were the initials A.H. painted in delicate and swerve style below the collar.
The animal’s peculiar grimace was apparent when looking at it directly. One side of its face seemed to hang off it while the other was firmer looking. It was almost as if the beast had suffered a stroke.
In truth the china bull dog’s sole past owner had been an elderly lady by the name of Mrs. Hainges. As her husband had departed to fight in The Great War he had bizarrely bequivered her with it. She had always thought it ugly but could never being herself to throw it away.
Mrs. Hainges was a superstitious woman. When Albert her husband had eventually returned he bared the marks of war in full. A German sniper had taken his nose clean off. The surgeons had laboriously attempted to patch the wobbly flesh together in the end it was as if his nose had been replaced by a chip. Delving its way into his face.
Mrs. Haignes had struggled to look him directly in the face ever since. Anger and frustration wore themselves as lines on Alberts face, shame resonated from it. He refused to show his face in public and insisted on dwelling under the small staircase in their cottage, taking his meals there under lamp light.
Felling the angst of guilt wash over her suddenly one cold November morning she took the little china bull dog and bashed its face with a fire poker, leaving a permanent chip.
After she would never leave the house without it when she was not tending to Albert that is.
Albert died ten years later and eventually so too did Mrs Haignes. The little china bull dog was forgotten.