The Unbidden - Writers Forum

Azmakna · 07-02-2007, 03:21 PM

The Unbidden

Joey Blakeman had his pockets filled with the pebbles that he had sorted through at the river. His favourite catapult protruded from his back pocket and tapped the small of his back as he stepped over the thick undergrowth of Tawnaby Woods. The brambles tore at his jeans and lashed at his ankles as he forged onward, oblivious of the scratches they were inflicting.

Over the years, the woods had garnered a reputation and as such had become a place seldom visited by the other children. There were a variety of symbols carved into several of the trees therein, but nothing to be afraid of as far as Joey was concerned, who had added his own over the years for good measure. Even sane minded adults had warned of un-saintly deeds within its labyrinth of trees and bushes, alluding to devil worship after having one too many at their local publican house.

However, nothing could sway Joey from his day at Tawnaby Woods; it was his only way of enjoying a weekend break away from senior school. He had been asked on many occasions to join his classmates in a game of football or cricket or hide and go seek, but had always graciously declined, unable to shake the thrilling thought of the woods and its clean, unsullied air.

Somehow, he had always known that he was different in some way to the other children: preferring his own company to that of others – even when he was at junior school. He had stymied any suggestion of bullying in his first week there, with his now infamous gaze. There was something about his stare that kept intrusion at bay: an uncanny knack of crawling in through the eyes and touching the inside of the forehead with a chilled thought.

Shading his eyes from the dappled sunlight above with a hand, he peered through the rooftop of branches and leaves and beyond to a blue sky. Only a smidgen of cloud marred the pureness of that earthless expanse, while Joey’s size ten boots crushed the undergrowth as he ploughed on undaunted towards his own hushed corner of the woods.

A collared dove cooed at his passing and a flock of starlings launched themselves from a nearby tree, weaving in the air before finally settling in a nearby field, hidden within the long grass there. A yellowhammer fluttered-and-swooped its way along the side of a field, landing eventually atop one of the smaller trees, uttering: ‘a little bit of bread and no cheeeese… a little bit of bread and no cheeeesee…’, as if it too had recognised a patron of the woods.

Finally, having navigated the thick population of nettles and hawthorn bushes, he was there. This was his personal slice of Eden, with its fallen tree that made the perfect bench, and stream, which meandered through the clearing and disappeared beneath a black, old, knotted clump of briar on the far side. In the very centre stood an oak tree, its trunk so scarred by lightening and time that it had split and swollen on one side, bearing its pulp to the softly scented air. There were a few names carved into its gnarled bark, though none as often replicated as Joey’s.

He sat down on the fallen tree and savoured the isolation. Neither a car nor voice could be heard: just the heart-stopping ambience of nature. From a small backpack, he took a flask and put it beside him, taking care that it did not tumble to the dried earth beneath. Sandwiches, which had been wrapped in cling film, were also removed and placed down with equal mind. They would be cheese and pickle – they always were; it was the one thing that he loved about his mother: her dogged consistency. Once he had sated his appetite and quenched his thirst, Joey placed everything back in his backpack, pulled its rip cord tight and leant it against the tree – all the while, scanning the surrounding woodland for any signs of movement.

There!

A wren had hopped into view not three metres from where Joey was sat and was busy picking through a bramble bush, oblivious of its audience. Joey vaulted the fallen tree to get blindside of the wren and squatted down, mindful that the smallest of sounds could scare the tiny creature away. From the inside pocket of his denim jacket, Joey took a small notepad and pencil, laying it beside him. This was were he kept his records: species, size, hit-ability (his own personal favourite) and number of kills. Starlings were top of his hit list with 1,264, whilst wrens and goldcrests came in at 112 and 97 respectively, although, with hit-ability taken into consideration, the wren had the highest score overall. The wood pigeon was particularly difficult to mark because it would often take more than one hit to bring down. many had escaped with only a few feathers missing: much to his chagrin.

Joey slid his catapult from his back pocket and felt for a pebble, his eyes never straying from the target. Bending down from view a moment, he placed the pebble into the cup of the catapult and raised back up until his eyes were level with the fallen tree. It was still there, its dainty head twitching in search of food. Joey gripped the cup and pebble between fingers and thumb and pulled it back, taking aim between the metal V.

Thwack!

The effect was instant and satisfying. For a split second, the wood stood still – only the wren and the V mattered at all, and the violent whipping of the release. A once delicate, russet bird had exploded in a flurry of feathers that were drifting gradually to earth on a gentle breeze, the body of the wren itself knocked deep into the undergrowth: dead.

“One hundred and thirteen,” Joey announced, writing it in the pad.

He leapt over the tree and approached the scene, pulling the bramble bush to one side and stamping on the nettles there, edging deeper into the tangle of foliage in an attempt to locate his prize. Soon he realised though that it was not going to be an easy task: the wren was perfectly camouflaged for this environment and tiny to boot. Getting down on his knees, Joey crawled forward, his hands busy turning fallen leaves and rotted bark, while his eyes flicked frenetically from one potential to another, forever hopeful, never satisfied.

There it was! Its lifeless eyes had caught a beam of sunlight and were sparkling like jewels in a nest of moss. Smiling now, Joey reached out his hand to take it, but something held him back. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the problem: some of the bramble bush had wrapped around his ankle. The harder he tugged, the fiercer its grip until, defeated for the moment, he backed up, glancing forward one last time to memorise the wren’s exact position. However, it had gone… and so had the sounds of the wood. Startled by the vacuum, Joey quickened his retreat, repeatedly shaking his foot as he did so.

“Get off, get off!” Joey shouted, as he finally emerged from the thicket, able now to stand and place his free foot on the bramble to gain leverage. He felt a tug and fell to the ground with a thump. Terror infused his body with adrenaline as he gripped the grass with his hands and began to pull, his fingernails scouring the parched earth. Inch by inch, he put distance between himself and his invisible foe, until, to his relief, he heard a snap and fell forward, lungs hungry for air.

After standing, he gazed around at his sanctuary, but something had changed. The affinity that he had once felt with the woods seemed a distant memory now, and he was alone here, in a place that was beyond ownership: a feral, untameable wilderness. That silence that had filled him with anxiety had crawled inside, bringing goose flesh and shivers – then sound at last.

It began in his ears, like the wind when it rushes passed the open window of a speeding car, building until it almost found words. As it intensified, Joey thought he caught his name in whispers and the trees that had been motionless began to bend and sway, their leaves hissing, their branches groaning. Those wispy clouds stretched ever thicker above until they masked the sun entirely, throwing the clearing into shadow – shadow that reached out to touch Joey, who began backing up towards the oak tree.

Amid the darkness beneath the canopy of the woods, forms began to emerge. At first they were ethereal, there shapes nothing more than tatters fashioned from the gloom, trembling but never fragmented by the high wind as they ripped themselves free. As Joey’s back touched the oak tree, they suddenly made sense and as such, brought a gasp from his dry lips. He could see a deer, and then another. Many rabbits and squirrels slipped out from the darkness to join their brethren, each with eyes intent on Joey. Birds of all shapes and sizes emerged too, but they were stripped of their colourful plumage, retaining something of the blackness from which they were born. However, there was one trait that made them blood: the fire in their eyes. Closer they grew, their fire gathering ferocity as Joey pressed harder against the tree, willing the nightmare to be just that. It was not to be though; he could feel their chilled breath at his face now as he closed his eyes and waited…

Silence…

Had they gone? Had it been a figment of his imagination after all? He waited as long as he dare before opening his eyes, and then when he had plucked up the courage to do so, wished he had not. The once verdant blanket covering the clearing was a seething mass of shadow birds, each with two little flames just for him. As he opened his mouth to scream, they rose from the ground en mass, spiralling heaven bound before twisting as a single entity and plummeting earthward, their target clearly Joey. They hit him like a fist of ice, penetrating his skin and clothing, pouring in through a mouth taut from panic. His eyes, that had been wide and unblinking, began to close and his head lolled forward, the frost gripping him from inside and bringing him the saviour of sleep…

“Joey! Joey!” it was a familiar voice that shook him from his slumber “Joey…”

“M… M… Mother?” Joey stammered and opened his eyes.

He was looking up at a blue, familiar sky, with its thin clouds. Heartened too by the recognizable sounds of Tawnaby Woods, he made to stand, however his limbs refused his will. Once more he tried to muster strength enough to stand, but again his body disobeyed.

“Joey!”

A shudder rocked him for a moment sending spasms through his whole body. His eyes swivelled in their orbs, attempting to view his limbs as they shook and shivered, although he could only make out the end of his nose. Another tremor, this time stronger than the last, bringing a further quake that this time did not dissipate: instead it intensified. He attempted to cry out to his mother, but something caught in his throat and made him gag. As he choked and spluttered, something blew out from his open mouth and twirled in the air about his face, settling gently down on his cheek right next to an eye. It was a tiny, brown feather.

Now he could feel something emerging from his throat and squirming over his tongue, pushing at his lips for escape, before spewing free of his mouth and taking wing. The wren circled for a while above before settling onto his nose, its fragile little eyes scrutinising Joey’s own, which were flitting wildly as if trying to avoid an imaginary peck. Then the trembling again, followed by a lurching of his whole body, which shook his head onto a stone and made it possible to view his torso. Shapes were crawling beneath his clothing – many shapes.

As the voice of Joey’s mother rang in his ears one last time, his torso exploded, shredding his T-shirt and throwing his denim jacket wide open. A river of birds poured from his chest, beating the fresh air with urgency in their wings as a baby would take its first breath, and Joeys last thought before slipping into darkness was: This is still my wood.

i trust you to kill me · 07-02-2007, 04:20 PM

Wow. Wow wow wow.

That was absolutely incredible. Probably one of the most intense pieces I've seen in a long time. I love the change from hunter, to victim in the end. And extremely eloquently written.

My only criticism would be some of the set up. Maybe it's just me personally (I do have ADD lol) but the intro seemed a bit long to me. But, I could be way off the mark here.

Excellent piece.

Mikey

DavidGil · 07-03-2007, 09:38 AM

Nice story Az. Made a few comments as ever with nitpicks but enjoyed it.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Azmakna

The Unbidden

Joey Blakeman had his pockets filled with the pebbles that he had sorted through at the river. His favourite catapult protruded from his back pocket and tapped the small of his back as he stepped over the thick undergrowth of Tawnaby Woods. The brambles tore at his jeans and lashed at his ankles as he forged onward, oblivious of the scratches they were inflicting.

Over the years, the woods had garnered a reputation and as such had become a place seldom visited by the other children. There were a variety of symbols carved into several of the trees therein, but nothing to be afraid of as far as Joey was concerned, who had added his own over the years for good measure. Even sane minded adults had warned of un-saintly deeds within its labyrinth of trees and bushes, alluding to devil worship after having one too many at their local publican house.

Not too sure the is needed there.

However, nothing could sway Joey from his day at Tawnaby Woods; it was his only way of enjoying a weekend break away from senior school. He had been asked on many occasions to join his classmates in a game of football or cricket or hide and go seek, but had always graciously declined, unable to shake the thrilling thought of the woods and its clean, unsullied air.

Would take go out. I'd possibly also look into removing one or two 'or' as well and instead use commas. Sentence might be a little too long as well.

Somehow, he had always known that he was different in some way to the other children: preferring his own company to that of others – even when he was at junior school. He had stymied any suggestion of bullying in his first week there, with his now infamous gaze. There was something about his stare that kept intrusion at bay: an uncanny knack of crawling in through the eyes and touching the inside of the forehead with a chilled thought.

Shading his eyes from the dappled sunlight above with a hand, he peered through the rooftop of branches and leaves and beyond to a blue sky. Only a smidgen of cloud marred the pureness of that earthless expanse, while Joey’s size ten boots crushed the undergrowth as he ploughed on undaunted towards his own hushed corner of the woods.

Would remove and while simply using a comma in it's place.

A collared dove cooed at his passing and a flock of starlings launched themselves from a nearby tree, weaving in the air before finally settling in a nearby field, hidden within the long grass there. A yellowhammer fluttered-and-swooped its way along the side of a field, landing eventually atop one of the smaller trees, uttering: ‘a little bit of bread and no cheeeese… a little bit of bread and no cheeeesee…’, as if it too had recognised a patron of the woods.

Finally, having navigated the thick population of nettles and hawthorn bushes, he was there. This was his personal slice of Eden, with its fallen tree that made the perfect bench, and stream, which meandered through the clearing and disappeared beneath a black, old, knotted clump of briar on the far side. In the very centre stood an oak tree, its trunk so scarred by lightening and time that it had split and swollen on one side, bearing its pulp to the softly scented air. There were a few names carved into its gnarled bark, though none as often replicated as Joey’s.

I'd possibly remove the comma after bench.

He sat down on the fallen tree and savoured the isolation. Neither a car nor voice could be heard: just the heart-stopping ambience of nature. From a small backpack, he took a flask and put it beside him, taking care that it did not tumble to the dried earth beneath. Sandwiches, which had been wrapped in cling film, were also removed and placed down with equal mind. They would be cheese and pickle – they always were; it was the one thing that he loved about his mother: her dogged consistency. Once he had sated his appetite and quenched his thirst, Joey placed everything back in his backpack, pulled its rip cord tight and leant it against the tree – all the while, scanning the surrounding woodland for any signs of movement.

Not sure the comma is needed after while.

There!

A wren had hopped into view not three metres from where Joey was sat and was busy picking through a bramble bush, oblivious of its audience. Joey vaulted the fallen tree to get blindside of the wren and squatted down, mindful that the smallest of sounds could scare the tiny creature away.
From the inside pocket of his denim jacket, Joey took a small notepad and pencil, laying it beside him. This was were he kept his records: species, size, hit-ability (his own personal favourite) and number of kills. Starlings were top of his hit list with 1,264, whilst wrens and goldcrests came in at 112 and 97 respectively, although, with hit-ability taken into consideration, the wren had the highest score overall. The wood pigeon was particularly difficult to mark because it would often take more than one hit to bring down. many had escaped with only a few feathers missing: much to his chagrin.

Typo there.

Joey slid his catapult from his back pocket and felt for a pebble, his eyes never straying from the target. Bending down from view a moment, he placed the pebble into the cup of the catapult and raised back up until his eyes were level with the fallen tree. It was still there, its dainty head twitching in search of food. Joey gripped the cup and pebble between fingers and thumb and pulled it back, taking aim between the metal V.

I'd make a simple change here. Joey gripped the cup and pebble between fingers, thumb and pulled it back taking aim between the metal V.

Thwack!

The effect was instant and satisfying. For a split second, the wood stood still – only the wren and the V mattered at all, and the violent whipping of the release. A once delicate, russet bird had exploded in a flurry of feathers that were drifting gradually to earth on a gentle breeze, the body of the wren itself knocked deep into the undergrowth: dead.

“One hundred and thirteen,” Joey announced, writing it in the pad.

He leapt over the tree and approached the scene, pulling the bramble bush to one side and stamping on the nettles there, edging deeper into the tangle of foliage in an attempt to locate his prize. Soon he realised though that it was not going to be an easy task: the wren was perfectly camouflaged for this environment and tiny to boot. Getting down on his knees, Joey crawled forward, his hands busy turning fallen leaves and rotted bark, while his eyes flicked frenetically from one potential to another, forever hopeful, never satisfied.

I'd remove the comma and replace it as with. Rotten would be better I feel.

There it was! Its lifeless eyes had caught a beam of sunlight and were sparkling like jewels in a nest of moss. Smiling now, Joey reached out his hand to take it, but something held him back, something around his ankle. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the problem: some of the bramble bush had wrapped around his ankle. The harder he tugged, the fiercer its grip until, defeated for the moment, he backed up, glancing forward one last time to memorise the wren’s exact position. However, it had gone… and so had the sounds of the wood. Startled by the silent vacuum, Joey quickened his retreat, repeatedly shaking his foot as he did so.

A suggestion: The harder he tugged, the fiercer its grip was until he was defeated for the moment. He backed up glancing forward one last time to memorise the wren's exact position.

“Get off, get off!” Joey shouted, as he finally emerged from the thicket, able now to stand and place his free foot on the bramble to gain leverage. He felt a tug and fell to the ground with a thump. Terror infused his body with adrenaline as he gripped the grass with his hands and began to pull, his fingernails scouring the parched earth. Inch by inch, he put distance between himself and his invisible foe, until, to his relief, he heard a snap and fell forward, his lungs hungry for air.

Inch by inch, he put distance between himself and his invisible foe. Until, much to his relief, he heard a snap and fell forward with his lungs hungry for air.

After standing, he gazed around at his sanctuary, but something had changed. The affinity that he had once felt with the woods seemed a distant memory now, and he was alone here, in a place that was beyond ownership: a feral, untameable wilderness. That silence that had filled him with anxiety had crawled inside, bringing goose flesh and shivers – then sound at last.

Would remove the comma. I'm not too sure regarding this bit. A suggestion if I may: The silence that had filled him with anxiety crawled inside,

I think that reads better in my opinion anyway.

It began in his ears, like the wind when it rushes passed the open window of a speeding car, building until it almost found words. As it intensified, Joey thought he caught his name in whispers and the trees that had been motionless began to bend and sway, their leaves hissing, their branches groaning. Those wispy clouds stretched ever thicker above until they masked the sun entirely, throwing the clearing into shadow – shadow that reached out to touch Joey, who began backing up towards the oak tree.

Past. This bit I'd change slightly: As it intensified, Joey thought he caught his name in whispers. The trees that had been motionless began to bend and sway with their leaves hissing and their branches groaning. The might be a better word I think.

Amid the darkness beneath the canopy of the woods, forms began to emerge. At first they were ethereal, there shapes nothing more than tatters fashioned from the gloom, trembling but never fragmented by the high wind as they ripped themselves free. As Joey’s back touched the oak tree, they suddenly made sense and as such, brought a gasp from his dry lips. He could see a deer, and then another. Many rabbits and squirrels slipped out from the darkness to join their brethren, each with eyes intent on Joey. Birds of all shapes and sizes emerged too, but they were stripped of their colourful plumage, retaining something of the blackness from which they were born. However, there was one trait that made them blood: the fire in their eyes.

Their. Not too sure the comma is needed.

Closer they grew, their fire gathering ferocity as Joey pressed harder against the tree, willing the nightmare to be just that. It was not to be though; he could feel their chilled breath at his face now as he closed his eyes and waited…

Silence…

Had they gone? Had it been a figment of his imagination after all? He waited as long as he dare before opening his eyes, and then when he had plucked up the courage to do so, wished he had not. The once verdant blanket covering the clearing was a seething mass of shadow birds, each with two little flames just for him. As he opened his mouth to scream, they rose from the ground en mass, spiralling heaven bound before twisting as a single entity and plummeting earthward, their target clearly Joey. They hit him like a fist of ice, penetrating his skin and clothing, pouring in through a mouth taut from panic. His eyes, that had been wide and unblinking, began to close and his head lolled forward, the frost gripping him from inside and bringing him the saviour of sleep…

Dared. Would remove the comma there I think and keep the rest as it is.

“Joey! Joey!” it was a familiar voice that shook him from his slumber “Joey…”

“M… M… Mother?” Joey stammered and opened his eyes.

He was looking up at a blue, familiar sky, with its thin clouds. Heartened too by the recognizable sounds of Tawnaby Woods, he made to stand, however his limbs refused his will. Once more he tried to muster strength enough to stand, but again his body disobeyed.

I'd possibly take one of the commas out here if possible.

“Joey!”

A shudder rocked him for a moment sending spasms through his whole body. His eyes swivelled in their orbs, attempting to view his limbs as they shook and shivered, although he could only make out the end of his nose. Another tremor, this time stronger than the last, bringing a further quake that this time did not dissipate: instead it intensified. He attempted to cry out to his mother, but something caught in his throat and made him gag. As he choked and spluttered, something blew out from his open mouth and twirled in the air about his face, settling gently down on his cheek right next to an eye. It was a tiny, brown feather.

Now he could feel something emerging from his throat and squirming over his tongue, pushing at his lips for escape, before spewing free of his mouth and taking wing. The wren circled for a while above before settling onto his nose, its fragile little eyes scrutinising Joey’s own, which were flitting wildly as if trying to avoid an imaginary peck. Then the trembling again, followed by a lurching of his whole body, which shook his head onto a stone and made it possible to view his torso. Shapes were crawling beneath his clothing – many shapes.

As the voice of Joey’s mother rang in his ears one last time, his torso exploded, shredding his T-shirt and throwing his denim jacket wide open. A river of birds poured from his chest, beating the fresh air with urgency in their wings as a baby would take its first breath, and Joeys last thought before slipping into darkness was: This is still my wood.

I'd remove the comma there.

Azmakna · 07-04-2007, 06:18 PM

thanks David. i'm going to have to seriously rethink the beginning, the lack of interest is critique enough

The Fratkin · 07-04-2007, 06:30 PM

That was fantastic! You really pulled off a seamless transition from a rather realistic storyline to one of fantasy.

My only critique was already covered by DavidGil. He's one thorough critic, eh?

DavidGil · 07-04-2007, 07:16 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Azmakna

thanks David. i'm going to have to seriously rethink the beginning, the lack of interest is critique enough

No problem at all Azmakna. Just hope the critique helps and I'm correct with the vast majority of suggestions. Always happy to help you as you help a lot of people, myself included.

Fratkin, I learned from Azmakna.

I probably wouldn't critique that much if it wasn't for him. Always felt like I was stepping on the more experienced writers toes by doing so. Maybe I am but well, whatever. It's only opinions anyway and the advice doesn't need to be taken.

I'll try to take a look at the piece you popped up when I get time Fratkin.

Azmakna · 07-06-2007, 08:01 PM

the next best thing to writing for me is, hopefully helping others, so thank you David

The Prodigy · 07-22-2008, 01:25 AM

I haven't read a story of such quality in some time - too long. For that reason I will not offer criticism, only praise.

"There was something about his stare that kept intrusion at bay: an uncanny knack of crawling in through the eyes and touching the inside of the forehead with a chilled thought."

Thought that this was a interesting illustrative sentence, sets well with the tone and feel of the young man. Throughout the story, I noticed how well it blended - one scene, description, thought to another. As your pace increased, so did I with my reading. This was a story meditated upon, or at least, it feels that way. The progression of the end: great writing. I can't put it any better than that; for me, that's a heartfelt compliment. The last sentence: This is still my wood - leaves the impact there, a penetrating synopsis.

Lastly, I must agree - I feel amateurish critiquing some of the more "experienced" ones of this site.