Writing: Story Update

So, about a week or so ago, I published the first draft version of the prologue of my new story I've been working on. After doing so, I realised that I shouldn't have done that. My first drafts are horrendous and jumbled up. The reason for this is that I'm usually telling myself the story the first time around, which results in crappy sentences and shallow characters. These things get fixed in subsequent drafts. Therefore, I've decided to wait until my second draft is complete to post the story. That way, you guys don't have to waste time reading a story that's terrible :) I will consider, however, doing a before and after post using the first and second drafts of the prologue (or other part of the story) to show how much change goes on during revision.

Hopefully you won't have to wait too long for the second draft!

Story: Empty

This is a flash fiction that I wrote for my creative writing portfolio. The idea came to me randomly one evening, but I think I was somewhat inspired by the extremely short flash fiction by Ernest Hemingway: For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.

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Every night, she woke up. Always at the same time. 2:57 AM. That had been the time when she had felt it. The stabbing in her lower abdomen, the wetness between her legs. And the dread, the anguish. Not fear. Fear required a notion of uncertainty, of confusion. She had known exactly what was happening. She had only wished for it to stop. Of course it hadn’t. Even now, it hadn’t gone away. This pain, this deep ache within her body and her heart still pulsed and woke her each night to remind her why she felt this way.

Next to her, she felt him move. He wasn’t asleep, he couldn’t fool her.

While she fell asleep only to reawaken, he couldn’t fall asleep anymore. For two weeks, his eyes would grow heavy but the tides of sleep never carried him away to sweet slumber. Instead, when his body could no longer withstand exhaustion, nightmares came. Terrible images of red stained sheets and his wife crying and cradling something small, red, and motionless in her arms. Her wails echoed through his mind until he woke, his heart racing and his pillow saturated with sweat. He would lie there, waiting for her to awake and sit up. She would stay silent, just sitting there, staring down at her legs, not daring to spread them. A hand rubbing over her abdomen, as if checking to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken. He had tried to talk to her at first, to see if there was any way he could put her mind at ease. To put his own mind at ease. But she never answered him and her silence was more painful than that awful night had been.

            He wondered if she blamed him.

            She didn’t answer him because he couldn’t help. How could he? He didn’t even understand. Yes, it had been a loss for both of them, but it was far worse for her. She had lost a part of herself. For months, she had been caring for it, nourishing it, loving it even though she had never laid eyes upon it. But now, it was gone, lost forever with no way of replacing it. She didn’t even want to try to replace it. The hole within her was too big, too deep. There was no way he or anyone else could make her feel whole again.

Story: Woodman of the World

This is a flash fiction that I included in my creative portfolio last term. Originally, it was part of a writing exercise my instructor assigned. We went to Pioneer Cemetery (our local cemetery on campus) and walked around, finding names for potential characters. Our assignment was to find a name and create a story with them as the main character. At first, I really wanted an unusual name and I did find some really wacky ones, but then I came across a tombstone with a wonderful inscription on it that made an entire story come into my mind. The name was Joseph S. Stiles and the inscription was: Here Lies Woodman of the World.

How could a story not come from that?

Source

Joseph lowered his axe and wiped sweat from his brow. The men were concentrating on their work, chopping away at the trees that had stood for hundreds of years. Maybe longer. When he was young, he had run through these trees with his brothers, laughing and running, imagining they were hunting bears and lions. Once he had grown up, married and had children of his own, these trees remained his friends. He cut firewood and lumber, but never took more than he needed and always silently thanked the trees for their gifts. Just like his father taught him. The day Joseph’s father had given him his first axe, he had said, “Joseph Samuel Stiles, remember that this forest is older than you. It was here before you were born and it’ll be here after you die. Show it respect.”

He had, up until now. But there was nothing Joseph could do. The lumber companies had finally found this prize collection of timber and began their destruction. It almost happened over night. They offered jobs to the townsmen, ordinary folks who, like Joseph, had lived and respected the forest all their lives. They had all jumped at the chance to make more money than they had ever seen at one time. Joseph had done the same. Soon, he’d be able to buy a brand new truck. His family had more food on the table and his wife even mentioned that, in a few years, they could move to another town, a bigger town, and not have to live in the backwaters anymore. It would be better for the children, she said. Joseph agreed, but as each day passed, the weight of the axe in his hands grew heavier and it became harder to look at the trees.

“You all right, Joe?” His head jerked and Joseph realised that he had stood still for far too long. Walt Humphrey and Nick Reynolds stared at him with large concerned eyes, axes raised, ready to strike the tree again. They were worried. They had all seen men who fainted from overworking themselves, squeezing in a few more hours each day to earn a bit more money, forgetting to drink water or eat food and eventually collapsing, almost catching themselves on the sharp edges of their axe. It was a scary thing to witness, the look some men got in their eyes when all they could think about was getting a few more dollars.

Joseph shook his head. “I’m fine. Just need some water.” As the other men nodded, Joe stepped away, keeping his eyes off the mangled tree, and moved to the bucket of water. He lifted the metal ladle to his lips and closed his eyes, feeling the cool water bathe his parched throat. But when he closed his eyes, he was not greeted by comforting blackness. His mind’s eye filled with guilt in the shape of trees. Firs and spruces, their needles the rich blue-green of the ocean. Their limbs shifting and creaking in the wind. Their fresh scent of winter mornings. They called to him, spoke to him, asked him why he hurt them. Joseph tried to explain that there was nothing he could do, that even if he were to lay down his axe and never pick it up again other men would still come and cut them down. But they did not care that others would continue the work he was only a small part of. They cared why he did it, why he chose to break his promise.

Was it the money? No, Joseph never cared for the stuff, never thought he needed much of it to live. Before the lumber companies came, his family had lived comfortably off of the few dollars he earned selling wood in town.

Then what was it?

Joseph felt a hand on his shoulder. Nick stood beside him, concern in his face. “You sure you’re okay, Joe? You not gonna pass out or anything?”

Looking at his friend’s face, Joseph could see the beginnings of the money thirst in the other man’s eyes. They glinted frantically, they darted from one point to another, never staying in one place for long. Soon, Nick would work past sunset and come before dawn, his axe becoming an extension of his arm. Joseph was scared. Scared of what he had gotten himself into. He knew why he had begun work with the others. These men, he knew them all. He had trusted them when they told him this was a good thing. But now, all these men were strangers. Joseph did not want to become a stranger to his wife, to his children. To the trees.

Joseph looked Nick straight in the eyes, managing to lock the other man’s flighty gaze. “You know what, I think I need to leave. To rest.”

“You gonna be okay?”

A smile spread across Joseph’s face, an action he had not felt in many months. “Yeah. I’m gonna be all right.”

Story: Chalk

So, as promised I am going to post some of my creative work here. This particular piece was something I wrote last year for one of my creative writing classes. We were given the broad topic of a story between two siblings that had not seen each other for a long time, but we could not say blatantly why but imply the reasons (similar to the way Ernest Hemingway implies the main problem in "Hills Like White Elephants").

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Source

Charlie stared across the park, letting the piece of white chalk roll between his hands. He glanced down at his watch. Half past three. He should be here by now, Charlie thought. Slouching down on the bench, he placed the chalk in the pocket of his worn jacket and rubbed his hands on his jeans. Near the twisted oak tree, a small boy with blonde hair was playing with his toy aeroplane. It swooped up in the air as the boy added sounds of zoom! and swoosh! It was funny; it didn’t seem so long ago that he and his brother had been playing in the street with toy planes and cars, or drawing pictures in colourful chalk. Charlie was eighteen now, graduating high school in two weeks. He wished his brother could make it.

“Hey.” Charlie twisted his head around so fast that his neck seized up with sharp stabbing. Massaging the muscle, he winced a smile to the gangly teen sitting next to him. Dennis had always liked to sneak up behind him ever since they were young.

“You’re late,” Charlie said to his brother. “Don’t know why I expected anything different.” A woman got out of her silver sedan parked on the far side of the street, carrying a brown bag of groceries. A large delivery truck drove by and Charlie blinked. The car had been silver, right? Now it was a navy blue minivan, the kind his mother had driven when he was young.

Shaking his head, Charlie turned his attention back to his brother. “So, why’d you want to see me?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” Dennis’ voice was squeaky, a bit too high pitched for a boy of sixteen. Then again, he had always seemed too young for his age, at least to Charlie.

Charlie shrugged, rolling the chalk in his hands again. “Why aren’t you coming to my graduation? I thought—“

“You know why. I can’t. Don’t try to tell me you’ve forgotten. I mean, ten years is a long time, but still…” Dennis never blinked, not when the wind blew in his face, not when the bright sun peaked out from behind the clouds. He looked too pale, not just the whiteness that comes from not enough sunlight. This was a different pallor. Like he was covered in flour. “Mum and Dad haven’t forgotten. And they weren’t even there.”

Trying to comprehend the meaning of his brother’s words, Charlie said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Dennis looked away from him, towards the park. Charlie followed his gaze and saw the little boy again. Six years old with blonde hair and a large smile. His toy plane was nowhere to be seen, instead he carried a bucket of coloured chalk. Blue, purple, orange. He skipped out from under the trees, kneeling down on the side walk. A bike rider came whizzing down towards him, veering away just in time. The boy took no notice.

Charlie heard his brother speak softly next to him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s the same thing that kept me from entering high school, even middle school. The same thing that kept me from you, Mum, and Dad. Made it so that you were alone and blamed yourself.” His voice was higher now, childish. Goosebumps arose on Charlie’s arms and he knew he had to face Dennis, even though he didn’t want to. But he had to.

Slowly, his neck turned his head towards his brother. The little six-year-old boy with blonde hair, swinging his legs off the edge of the bench. “It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Dennis said. Charlie hardly heard the words, shocked so much by this unreal vision. But then again, how could he not have guessed? It was so simple, so obvious. Ten years. How could he have forgotten?

“It was.” His throat and mouth felt dry and scratchy. He ran a parched tongue over his lips. “I should have done something. I was the older brother and I saw that stupid truck coming. I should have—“

Something rushed past him, catching his eye. He whipped his head around, his neck screaming again in pain. But he didn’t care. It was the boy, the little boy carrying the chalk. He was running towards the street, busy with traffic.

Not again! Charlie’s mind wailed, but what could he do? He stood up, fists clenching. He wanted to do something, anything. That boy was going to get hit—

The woman he had seen carrying the groceries ran to the boy, throwing an arm around him, stopping him. She knelt down and scolded him. The boy nodded reluctantly, then gave his mother a hug. They disappeared inside the silver sedan.

“There was nothing you could do, then or now.” Charlie didn’t turn to look at his brother and wished he could tune out his voice. It was too painful. The chalk pictures in the street. Blue, purple, orange. And red, bright red.

“I’m sor—“ Charlie turned. The bench was empty. He stood there, staring at it for a few minutes, then placed a shaky hand on the wood. The spot was warm. No, it’s cold. Dead cold.

Putting his hand back in his jacket pocket, Charlie turned to leave. Then he paused. He pulled out the piece of white chalk he had been fiddling with all day. One piece. He had had it forever, it seemed. For many years now.

He placed the chalk gently on the bench. After tens years, it was finally time to let go and move on.