The Tree House: 1st draft - Writers Forum

Slartibartfast · 06-12-2007, 12:38 PM

Hello my fine-feathered friends. Please read and enjoy.

The story is NOT complete.

_________________

The Tree House

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 · 06-12-2007, 02:44 PM

I love a story that makes me wonder if it is about the author as a young person. I love knowing that much about a person I have never met. It fills my circle of need so far as people are concerned, in a good way.

Quote:

We couldn’t tell you to this day who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even what decade it was pieced together in,

I think that line needs some doctoring. Maybe, "We couldn't tell you to this day who constructed that magnificient tree house, or even the decade when it was born," or something. It just threw me off and I really liked the cadence of the story up to and beyond that point. But that's only a suggestion.
You say the story is not complete. That's a given. I sure hope you finish it.
(side-note* have you seen 'bridge to tarabithia (sp ck)'? if not, i suggest you check it out. i kept getting visuals from the movie while reading your story, and i adored that movie, so that was a good thing, too.)

Slartibartfast · 06-12-2007, 02:54 PM

Thank you Paige. Yes, I plan to finish it.

You'd be surprised at how often I've posted something like this and inevitably someone says, "The ending doesn't make sense..." Don't laugh, it's happened enough I actually have to put a disclaimer up.

Also, I'm so glad you tied Tarabithia to my story, because I'm a big fan of those kind of fantasy stories, and I wanted to add a similar magical feel to it--in fact, there's going to be a lot more fantasy to come!

The story has a few elements of my childhood...which elements I won't say for fear of breaking the suspension of disbelief.

I can't wait to see BtT.

Leyline · 06-12-2007, 06:53 PM

Enjoyable read. You handled the 'thinking back to childhood' voice well. Nice visuals and I particularly enjoyed the poetic descriptions of time passing.

I'd love to read the rest if you post it.

Slartibartfast · 06-13-2007, 11:08 AM

I'm curious as to why not many people ever comment on my work. Is it boring? It certainly isn't perfect, so I know it can't go unpolished. And if it is pretty sound, why don't people tell me that?

Not looking for a pat on the back...I'm more intersted in hearing what's wrong with it, as opposed to what's right.

Tell me you hate it, and it bored the hell out of you...tell me something at least!!

Knocking · 06-13-2007, 01:47 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by 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 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 especially 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 to this day evoke the same feeling of awe I had as we rounded the bend and were thwarted by the massive trunk. 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, even after nearly a century of life; the bark peeling from its massive trunk; the sporadic leaf growth clinging in small groups on the random sprawling tendrils, 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 pieced-together 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 atrophy taking us with it? However passionately we envisioned these scenarios, none of our whimsical imagination came to—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some strange 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 leaves, 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 (my step-father 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. She would always win too, and to this day I can't fathom how. Her house was further away than mine, and she never brought her books to the fort. 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.

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 kids our age. We fancied ourselves politicians and diplomats, and would stand on the make-shift balcony which hung precariously off the main den, dictating orders, pointing to specific trees and pronouncing them with occupation. 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 of the summer pressed on. Until one auspicious afternoon...

You used "to this day" five times, I just thought you might want to use an "even now" or thrown in an "after all this time."

Very nice descriptions, I hope you post the rest! Keep writing!

Slartibartfast · 06-13-2007, 01:55 PM

Doh! I...must...change...this!!!

To this day I can't remember putting in so many "to this days."

Thanks for the comments, for reading, and for pointing out my blatent lack of regard for the phrases "even now" and "after all this time."

lol.

Knocking · 06-13-2007, 02:01 PM

Ha ha! Glad I could help.

Azmakna · 06-13-2007, 02:12 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Slartibartfast

Hello my fine-feathered friends. Please read and enjoy.

The story is NOT complete.

_________________

The Tree House

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 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 especially 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 to this day evoke the same feeling of awe I had as we rounded the bend and were thwarted by the massive trunk. 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, even after nearly a century of life; the bark peeling from its massive trunk; the sporadic leaf growth clinging in small groups on the random sprawling tendrils, fighting for what little sunlight they could seize.

HUGE PARAGRAPHS SCARE ME! i would change this to 'by' lose this. i would lose this. a hundred year old tree is not that old as far as trees are concerned. does this add or evoke anything more than simply writing: 'leaves clinging...'

We couldn’t tell you to this day who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even what decade it was pieced-together 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 atrophy taking us with it? However passionately we envisioned these scenarios, none of our whimsical imagination came to—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some strange 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 leaves, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and luring our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

words are great, but sometimes the poet in us all gets in the way of writing clearly. why not 'built'? a bit wordy and confusing.

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.

simple but great.

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 (my step-father 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. She would always win too, and to this day I can't fathom how. Her house was further away than mine, and she never brought her books to the fort. 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.

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 kids our age. We fancied ourselves politicians and diplomats, and would stand on the make-shift balcony which hung precariously off the main den, dictating orders, pointing to specific trees and pronouncing them with occupation. 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 of the summer pressed on. Until one auspicious afternoon...

i'll leave it at that. have you seen the film bridge to terabithia?

Paige Turner · 06-13-2007, 02:25 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Slartibartfast

I'm curious as to why not many people ever comment on my work. Is it boring? It certainly isn't perfect, so I know it can't go unpolished. And if it is pretty sound, why don't people tell me that?

Not looking for a pat on the back...I'm more intersted in hearing what's wrong with it, as opposed to what's right.

Tell me you hate it, and it bored the hell out of you...tell me something at least!!

Have you noticed how some of the works that have the fewest critiques are better than those that have many? Not as a rule, but to some degree? I don't think you have anything to worry about. Obviously, you feel good about it. It's hard to comment on good works, short of saying "Good Job!" and that being said too often is worse than nothing at all.
Like I said, no worries.

Slartibartfast · 06-13-2007, 02:28 PM

Thank you for the wonderful critique--I love colours.

I have not seen Teribethia yet, but I'm facinated with its lore. I've been told by a few other forum-goers that it reminds them of it. I have not read the books either, so it's safe to say I'm not stealing. If anything, I'm inspired by Narnian fantasy...mixed with a little LotR.

I'm curious what the un-coloured underscored bits are for? I know that I used "to this day" too much...but other than those, you underline but don't comment on some of them...

Anyway...I like what you've said, and I will rework and rethink this draft with your comments in mind.

Slartibartfast · 06-13-2007, 02:33 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Paige Turner

Have you noticed how some of the works that have the fewest critiques are better than those that have many? Not as a rule, but to some degree? I don't think you have anything to worry about. Obviously, you feel good about it. It's hard to comment on good works, short of saying "Good Job!" and that being said too often is worse than nothing at all.
Like I said, no worries.

I suppose you're right Paige. I had the same theory. Still, I try to express to good writers what I really liked, because I myself was inspired or had a great visual. I enjoy giving kudos when they are well deserved. I'm not saying there is a void of feedback...sometimes I feel like I'm alone in my little writing universe, and people just don't get into what I envision.

*shrug*

Do either of you think the paragraph about school gets in the way of the story?

Azmakna · 06-13-2007, 02:46 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Slartibartfast

Thank you for the wonderful critique--I love colours.

I have not seen Teribethia yet, but I'm facinated with its lore. I've been told by a few other forum-goers that it reminds them of it. I have not read the books either, so it's safe to say I'm not stealing. If anything, I'm inspired by Narnian fantasy...mixed with a little LotR.

I'm curious what the un-coloured underscored bits are for? I know that I used "to this day" too much...but other than those, you underline but don't comment on some of them...

Anyway...I like what you've said, and I will rework and rethink this draft with your comments in mind.

the underlining eh? lol. critique is supposed to work for you, so i sometimes underline something that i've pointed out earlier. let's take using far too many words to say something simple as an example here. if i pointed out everything in multicolours you wouldn't have to do any work yourself. all you would have to do is change it as i have suggested (remember i could be wrong!) so what i do is underline and therefor make you consider why, so making you work

Slartibartfast · 06-13-2007, 05:36 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Azmakna

the underlining eh? lol. critique is supposed to work for you, so i sometimes underline something that i've pointed out earlier. let's take using far too many words to say something simple as an example here. if i pointed out everything in multicolours you wouldn't have to do any work yourself. all you would have to do is change it as i have suggested (remember i could be wrong!) so what i do is underline and therefor make you consider why, so making you work

I thought you might either be underlining the non-coloured things for two reason: you wanted me to remove or rework, or, you liked it. Now I know it's the first reason.

I think it's a bit odd, because a few of the things you underlined (no colour) I find particular nice. Example:

youthful attention and careful submission
expansive bursts of green vegetation.

These two here, to me, are actually quite nice. I was particularly proud of them. But like you said, "I could be wrong!" Still, I always truly consider what someone offers me. Thanks again.

Azmakna · 06-13-2007, 05:49 PM

they are too wordy. 'attention and submission' what does 'youthful or careful' add to this?

'vegetation' what does 'expansive bursts of green' add to this?

Quote:

We couldn’t tell you to this day who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even what decade it was pieced-together 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 atrophy taking us with it? However passionately we envisioned these scenarios, none of our whimsical imagination came to—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some strange 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 leaves, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and luring our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

Quote:

We couldn’t tell you who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even in which decade it was built, 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 our blade to the tree. 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, feel our intrusion, fall from grace, and would the majestic Oak topple, taking us with it? However we considered each scenario, none of our imagination came to—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some strange way benefited from it. Our attention and careful submission appeared to revitalize the flow of liveliness within. In fact, our presence brought forth new buds, which quickly turned to fresh vegetation. Within weeks we were no longer surrounded by bare branches and stifling vines, but congregations of leaves, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

still don't understand this sentence though. i still have issues here though and i'll underline them lol