Slartibartfast

Because this seems to be turning into a novella, it's a fantasy, and there are a lot more participatory writers in this forum, I've decided to post my story here as well as short stories (at first I thought it would be a quickie, but it's turning into an ordeal.

--------------------------------------




I used to go to the tree house a lot when I was a child. The smell of the moist wood, and the feel of the uneven boards and rusty nails against my bare feet filled me with a strange sense of security. It’s not completely clear to me how we found that old tree house, perched high in a dying tree strangled with vine, but I can to this day remember every word we carved deep in the planks and bark. I can recollect running with Chrissy one humid day, darting in and out of waste-high weed, chasing a small animal or rodent we had disturbed in our escapades. And I can still evoke the same feeling of awe I had as we rounded the bend and were thwarted by the massive trunk in our path. When I close my eyes, I can still feel Chrissy’s hand as she gently grasped mine, both of us staring up that great, illustrious tree as if it were a magical bean stalk reaching for the clouds. Its stalwart roots still firmly embedded in the dark earth; the bark peeling from its massive trunk; the sporadic leaf growth clinging in small groups to select branches, fighting for what little sunlight they could seize.

We couldn’t tell you to this day who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even what decade it was built in, but we do know that we were the first to leave our mark. I can remember holding the knife, hand in hand with Chrissy, each of us wide-eyed with anticipation as we both pressed the knife blade into a governing branch. Would the noble tree feel our prick, and toss us from the great height? Would the strong branches choke the life from our shelter? Would the few leaves which held steadfast, feel our intrusion, fall from grace, and would the majestic Oak wither and take us with it? However passionately we envisioned these scenarios, none of our whimsical imaginings came to pass—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some mysterious way benefited from it. Our youthful attention and careful submission appeared to revitalize the flow of liveliness within. In fact, our presence—whether coincidental or not—brought forth new buds, which quickly turned to expansive bursts of green vegetation. Within weeks we were no longer surrounded by bare branches and stifling vines, but large congregations of growth, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and luring our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

Each day I sat in the school house, fidgeting with my pencil and shuffling my feet, anxious to hear the metallic scream of the ominous red bell which hung above the chalkboard like a spotless ladybug. I would sit quietly and dramatize our adventures in the old tree house, and sketch cryptic illustrations of our new secret dwelling. Often the teacher would call on me as I wandered my imagination, leaving me looking perplexed as my eyes shifted from the paper-dreams, back to reality. This transition was sometimes more difficult than usual, and I would faintly hear the vague echo of tittering as I strained to alter my focus. I was, however, never worried about what classmates thought, nor was I influenced by their cruelty. I knew kids were malicious and ignorant, and I felt deep inside that I was special—even through the roughest of times at home or at school. Perhaps one might regard my considerable imagination and theatrical adventures as an escape from a hard reality, but I knew better than that. I wasn’t concerned about what the teachers and School Master thought. I wasn’t one to turn red-eared and flustered when harassed by my peers. And I certainly wasn’t taking my step-father’s abuse to heart—that was my backside’s job. For some reason—to this day it baffles me—I could let all that negativity and hostility slide off of me as easily as rain from a cathedral roof. Even though I had spent a lot of time musing during class, my time at school was never a total waste; I was aware of the importance to learn and grow, but I suppose I was more keen to select what I knew to be important, and exclude what I thought to be superfluous. Miss K. (as we called her) knew that I was learning, regardless my unique outlook and active imagination, and we always had an unspoken understanding. I think she saw in me something untamable and singular, and for this reason left me to my own devices.

As the school days neared their ends, I would become more restless, unknowingly gazing out the window with a Pavlovian stare. Usually, I would watch the last minute tick by, counting in my head along with the second-hand. And just as the long slender hand was about to snap to attention, I would visualize the electricity shooting across town, surging through vast denominations of wires with lightning speed, until it reached the school grounds, splitting-off into each classroom in a glowing frenzy of resonance. Before I knew it I was racing home to drop off my book bag and head into the woods just north of the housing area where my step-father was stationed (he was in the military, and we lived on base). I never had to tell Chrissy to meet me, she just knew. Sometimes we would vie for King (Queen in Chrissy’s case) of the tree house by seeing who could get there first. I would always suffer the day after from the heavy bounce of my History and Biology books against my lower back as I scurried home. Most of the time, however, we would meet by the flagpole, and walk each other home—sometimes stopping at the local corner store to refresh our stock of Gobstoppers we had secretly stashed in a nook by the old bench on the second level of our fortress.

Time was never a factor in the tree house. Chrissy and I would sit for hours on the ornate blanket we found discarded on the curb outside of Tina’s Tarot, which we placed meticulously in the center of the main quarters. We would sit cross-legged with perfect posture, discussing things far too adult for two children our age. We fancied ourselves politicians and diplomats, and would stand outside on the make-shift balcony which hung precariously off the main den, dictating orders, pointing to specific trees and pronouncing them with occupation. ‘You’re the Captain of the Guard!’ we’d say pointing to a brawny Evergreen, our brows ruffled and our voices pressed as low as possible. No matter what time we made it to the tree house, we always had more time then we needed. Dusk would stretch endlessly to night, as if the sun’s buoyancy was just too great for the horizon to overcome.

Everything went as usual for several months, and the ease and charm of the summer lingered on…


...

Paige Turner

Beautiful! If you didn't before, you officially have a fan now.
ME!
And what do we do for our fans? Hmmm? We write more for them to read!
*waiting*

__________________



i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

Slartibartfast

SEE NEWEST REVISION ON LAST PAGE

Jeepers *blushing*

Thank you both, what wonderfully encouraging things to say (as well as insightful). I guess I have work to do.

Lukas Kirkby

I'll carry on reviewing this the more you put up.

Good Points

1. Quote:

   The smell of the moist wood, and the feel of the uneven boards and rusty nails against my bare feet filled me with a strange sense of security.

   I love the oxymoron you used here.
2. Quote:

   tree strangled with vine

   You use very good imagery here.
3. Quote:

   fighting for what little sunlight they could seize

   very good metaphor used here also.
4. Quote:

   red bell which hung above the chalkboard like a spotless ladybug.

   The imagery you're using in this piece is very well written! Well done!
5. Quote:

   And I certainly wasn’t taking my step-father’s abuse to heart—that was my backside’s job

   A little bit of humour here and there always brings the story along a lot nicer.
6. There is lots of good imagery used here, such as similies and metaphors, and it really brings the text to life.

Bad Points

1. I find the paragraphs a little too long. Try chopping them up, and It will make it all easier to read.
2. I think the bit about being at school and waiting till it finished went on for a little too long. You would have probably lost the attention span of some of your readers at this point.

Tips

1. It's good to have description and imagery, but sometimes if you put too much on a certain thing, it can start to get boring. Try to get rid of some of the less important parts of the description, and keep all the important parts, then make it all flow.
2. Don't dither on the same subject for too long either. When you think the audience will have had enough imformation about a certain thing, tell yourself to stop, and to move on to the next subject.

This is a very promising story, and I hope to see a dilemma in the later stages of it. Good luck.

Slartibartfast

Thank you Lukas, excellent points, and advise. I agree that my paragraphs carry-on longer than they should...however...lol...writers I adore like Jonathan Franzen and Melville--they are so wordy and long-winded but damn it's good material. Read The Corrections by Franzen, he is phenomenal (albeit run-on).

Another author I fancy with this style is John Kennedy Toole, and his fabulous Confederacy of Dunces.

And who could forget Douglas and his wonderful Hitchiker's series...

Melville's Moby Dick--isn't that one big run-on? Wonderful stuff...I love it.


I can only imagine how much "extra information" or how many "redundant discriptives" would be removed from these great authors if every critique had their way. This does not mean that I'm being defensive, or that I can't stand critisism...not at all. I'm only playing Devil's advocate.

Lukas Kirkby

No problem, reviewing is what I enjoy doing, and it's great to be somewhere where it's appreciated.

Slartibartfast

Newest Revision





I used to go to the tree house a lot when I was a child. The smell of the moist wood, and the feel of the uneven boards and rusty nails against my bare feet filled me with a strange sense of security. It’s not completely clear to me how we found that old tree house, perched high in a dying tree strangled with vine, but I can to this day remember every word we carved deep in the planks and bark. I can recollect running with Chrissy one humid day, darting in and out of waist-high weeds, chasing a small animal or rodent we had disturbed in our escapades. And I can still evoke the same feeling of awe I had as we rounded the bend and were thwarted by the massive trunk in our path. When I close my eyes, I can still feel Chrissy’s hand as she gently grasped mine, both of us staring up that great, illustrious tree as if it were a magical bean stalk reaching for the clouds. Its stalwart roots still firmly embedded in the dark earth; the bark peeling from its gnarled trunk; the sporadic leaf growth clinging in small groups to select branches, fighting for what little sunlight they could seize.

We couldn’t tell you to this day who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even what decade it was built in, but we do know that we were the first to leave our mark. I can remember holding the knife, hand in hand with Chrissy, each of us wide-eyed with anticipation as we pressed the knife blade into a governing branch. Would the noble tree feel our prick, and toss us from the great height? Would the strong branches choke the life from our shelter? Would the few leaves, which held steadfast, feel our intrusion, fall from grace, and would the majestic oak wither and take us with it? However passionately we envisioned these scenarios, none of our whimsical imaginings came to pass—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some mysterious way benefited from it. Our youthful attention and careful submission appeared to revitalize the flow of liveliness within. In fact, our presence—whether coincidental or not—brought forth new buds, which quickly turned to expansive bursts of green vegetation. Within weeks we were no longer surrounded by bare branches and stifling vines, but large congregations of growth, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and luring our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

Each day I sat in the school house, fidgeting with my pencil and shuffling my feet, anxious to hear the metallic scream of the well-worn red bell which hung above the chalkboard like a spotless ladybug. I would sit quietly and dramatize our adventures in the old tree house, and sketch cryptic illustrations of our new secret dwelling. Often the teacher would call on me as I wandered my imagination, leaving me looking perplexed as my eyes shifted from the paper-dreams, back to reality. Perhaps one might regard my considerable imagination and theatrical adventures as an escape from a hard reality, but I knew better than that. I wasn’t concerned about what the teachers and School Master thought. I wasn’t one to turn red-eared and flustered when harassed by my peers. And I certainly wasn’t taking my step-father’s abuse to heart—that was my backside’s job. For some reason—to this day it baffles me—I could let all that negativity and hostility slide off of me as easily as rain from a cathedral roof. Even though I had spent a lot of time musing during class, my time at school was never a total waste; I was aware of the importance to learn and grow, but I suppose I was more keen to select what I knew to be important, and exclude what I thought to be superfluous. Miss K. (as we called her) knew that I was learning, regardless my unique outlook and active imagination. I think she saw in me something untamable and singular, and for this reason left me to my own devices.

As each day neared its ends, I would become more restless, unknowingly gazing out the window with a Pavlovian stare. Usually, I would watch the last minute tick by, counting in my head along with the second-hand. And just as the long slender hand was about to snap to attention, I would visualize the electricity shooting across town, surging through vast networks of wires with lightning speed, until it reached the school grounds, splitting-off into each classroom in a glowing frenzy of resonance. Before the droning cry of the bell fully subsided, I was already racing down the hall and out the door.

I never had to tell Chrissy to meet me, she just knew. Sometimes we would vie for King (Queen in Chrissy’s case) of the tree house by seeing who could get there first. I would always suffer the day after from the heavy bounce of my History and Biology books against my lower back as I galloped home. Most of the time, however, we would meet by the flagpole, and walk each other home—sometimes stopping at the local corner store to refresh our stock of Gobstoppers we had secretly stashed in a nook by the old bench on the second level of our fortress.

Time was never a factor in the tree house. Chrissy and I would sit for hours on the ornate blanket we found discarded on the curb outside of Tina’s Tarot, which we placed meticulously in the center of the main quarters. We would sit cross-legged with perfect posture, discussing things far too adult for two children our age. We fancied ourselves politicians and diplomats, and would stand outside on the make-shift balcony which hung precariously off the main den, dictating orders, pointing to specific trees and pronouncing them with occupation. ‘You’re the Captain of the Guard!’ we’d say pointing to a brawny Evergreen, our brows ruffled and our voices pressed as deeply as possible. No matter what hour we made it to the tree house, we always had more time then we needed. Dusk would stretch endlessly to night, as if the sun’s buoyancy was just too great for the horizon to overcome.

Everything went as usual for several months, and the ease and charm of the summer pressed on…

blackthorn

WOW......Wow....I'm really lost for words to describe that masterpiece.

Great work man. I really felt like I was in the treehouse.....I dream about being as good at this as you are. I'll take away a lot of knoweledge from reading this.

Slartibartfast

Thank you Blackthorn, thank you so much. My advice to you (which will be repeated to you often) is: read, write, read, write, read, write.

When you read an author you like, or one that is known for their talent...pay close attention to their style, their choices, their grammar and punctuation...everything. Don't just read, but analyse also.

Then write, and don't stop writing. Try new things...take chances. And finally, revise, revise, revise, etc. Then read some more and write some more.

And take classes. Go to school. Keep a journal.

Practice makes perfect!

Slartibartfast

I used to go to the tree house a lot when I was a child. The smell of the moist wood, and the feel of the uneven boards and rusty nails against my bare feet filled me with a strange sense of security. It’s not completely clear to me how we found that old tree house, perched high in a dying tree strangled with vine, but I can to this day remember every word we carved deep in the planks and bark. I can recollect running with Chrissy one humid day, darting in and out of waist-high weeds, chasing a small animal or rodent we had disturbed in our escapades. And I can still evoke the same feeling of awe I had as we rounded the bend and were thwarted by the massive trunk in our path. When I close my eyes, I can still feel Chrissy’s hand as she gently grasped mine, both of us staring up that great, illustrious tree as if it were a magical bean stalk reaching for the clouds. Its stalwart roots still firmly embedded in the dark earth; the bark peeling from its gnarled trunk; the sporadic leaf growth clinging in small groups to select branches, fighting for what little sunlight they could seize.

We couldn’t tell you to this day who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even what decade it was built in, but we do know that we were the first to leave our mark. I can remember holding the knife, hand in hand with Chrissy, each of us wide-eyed with anticipation as we pressed the knife blade into a governing branch. Would the noble tree feel our prick, and toss us from the great height? Would the strong branches choke the life from our shelter? Would the few leaves, which held steadfast, feel our intrusion, fall from grace, and would the majestic oak wither and take us with it? However passionately we envisioned these scenarios, none of our whimsical imaginings came to pass—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some mysterious way benefited from it. Our youthful attention and careful submission appeared to revitalize the flow of liveliness within. In fact, our presence—whether coincidental or not—brought forth new buds, which quickly turned to expansive bursts of green vegetation. Within weeks we were no longer surrounded by bare branches and stifling vines, but large congregations of growth, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and luring our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

Each day I sat in the school house, fidgeting with my pencil and shuffling my feet, anxious to hear the metallic scream of the red bell which hung above the chalkboard like a spotless ladybug. I would sit quietly and dramatize our adventures in the old tree house, and sketch cryptic illustrations of our new secret dwelling. Often the teacher would call on me as I daydreamed, leaving me looking perplexed as my eyes shifted from the paper-dreams, back to reality. Perhaps one might regard my considerable imagination and theatrical adventures as an escape from a hard reality, but I knew better than that. I wasn’t concerned about what the teachers and School Master thought. I wasn’t one to turn red-eared and flustered when harassed by my peers. And I certainly wasn’t taking my step-father’s abuse to heart—that was my backside’s job. For some reason—to this day it baffles me—I could let all that negativity and hostility slide off of me as easily as rain from a cathedral roof. Even though I had spent a lot of time musing during class, it was never a total waste; I was aware of the importance to learn and grow, but I suppose I was more keen to select what I knew to be important, and ignore what I thought to be superfluous. Miss K. (as we called her) knew that I was learning, regardless my unique outlook and active imagination. I think she saw in me something untamable and singular, and for this reason left me to my own devices.

As each day neared its end, I would become more restless, unknowingly gazing out the window with a Pavlovian stare. Usually, I would watch the last minute tick by, counting in my head along with the second-hand. And just as the long slender hand was about to snap to attention, I would visualize the electricity shooting across town, surging through vast networks of wires with lightning speed, until it reached the school grounds, splitting-off into each classroom in a glowing frenzy of resonance. Before the droning cry of the bell fully subsided, I was already racing down the hall and out the main doors.

I never had to tell Chrissy to meet me, she just knew. Sometimes we would vie for King (Queen in Chrissy’s case) of the tree house by seeing who could get there first. I would always suffer the day after from the heavy bounce of my History and Biology books against my lower back as I galloped home. Most of the time, however, we would meet by the flagpole, and walk each other home—sometimes stopping at the local corner store to refresh our depleted stock of Gobstoppers we had secretly stashed in a twisted nook of the fortress.

Time was never a factor in the tree house. Chrissy and I would sit for hours on the ornate blanket we found discarded on the curb outside of Tina’s Tarot, which we placed meticulously in the center of the main quarters. We would sit cross-legged with perfect posture, discussing things far too adult for two children our age. We fancied ourselves politicians and diplomats, and would stand outside on the make-shift balcony which hung precariously off the main den, dictating orders, pointing to specific trees and pronouncing them with occupation. ‘You’re the Captain of the Guard!’ we’d say pointing to a brawny Evergreen, our brows ruffled and our voices pressed low. No matter what hour we made it to the tree house, we always had more time then we needed. Dusk would stretch endlessly to night, as if the sun’s buoyancy was just too great for the horizon to overcome.

Everything went as usual for several months, and the ease and charm of the summer pressed on…

rachiesmif

Hey, I just posted a comment on this in the old version in 'short stories'. Sorry, that was where I read it just now. I'm a little confused actually. Did you only just delete it from the short story section tonight? Because then that would make sense.

Rachiesmif

Azmakna

you seem to want an adjective or adverb for everything. i'm not saying that all the words i've underlined are wrong, what i'm saying is that perhaps you could lose some to break the monotonous rhythm or find less frequently used words to stamp your own style on it. great read though.

__________________
don't count me a blank page
waiting to be written on,
see me as a written page
waiting to be photocopied.

http://www.writersbeat.com

Slartibartfast

Thank you again for the awesome comments. I will make changes accordingly. I see your points, and I understand what you're trying to get across. In time, I will learn to tighten things up...

I'm still learning. Thanks for the help.

Azmakna

on a small side note, i would try to break the paragraphs up a little more. they are large here, but will be at least another third longer if you are fortunate enough to get published. i know, that's a contradiction in terms, but you know what i mean lol

__________________
don't count me a blank page
waiting to be written on,
see me as a written page
waiting to be photocopied.

http://www.writersbeat.com

Lukas Kirkby

I'll probably review this again as soon as you make two or three more remakes.