Not one to mess with seemingly self-aware inanimate objects, Tom carefully placed the box in the ground and filled the hole with dirt. He wasn't sure why, but he felt very strongly that he needed to hide any evidence that he had ever disturbed this mysterious box. Somehow, he knew that if he didn't keep this place a secret, something bad would happen. Something very bad.
Tom smoothed the dirt with his hands and covered it with leaves and other forest debris. He stood up to admire his work, wiping his hands on his already mud-stained pants. (His mother had long since given up chastising him about his dirty and ripped clothing. She had long since given up on almost everything, in fact, since the day that Megan had disappeared, and that was one of the main reasons Tom spent so much time in the forest to begin with.) Confident that he had successfully erased all traces of his presence, he took a moment to inspect the tree a little more.
He couldn't help but feel a sense of reverence as he surveyed the tree. It wasn't much to look at--not particularly tall or beautiful in any way--but there was a certain majestic quality about it that made him hesitant to make any noise. When he stood in front of it, he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to kneel and bow his head. He would have obeyed that urge, too, if it weren't for the fact that he was a twelve year old boy and felt embarrassed to even consider such nonsense. Still, kneeling or not, he couldn't deny that the tree was impressive, and that he was standing in the presence of something wiser than himself.
Perhaps it was the age of the tree that gave it such a wise aura. The branches were gnarled and knotted, and reminded him of his grandpa's arthritic hands. The bark was a light silvery-gray color--so light that it almost seemed translucent surrounded by the dark greens and browns that were so common throughout the rest of the forest. It almost looked like the tree were fading away into the background. In fact, Tom was so convinced that the tree was going to vanish, that he reached out his hand to touch it--just to convince himself that it was real.
As soon as his fingertips brushed against the bark, the tree let out a deep rumbling sound that made the hairs on Tom's neck stand on end. He pulled his hand back and jumped away from the old tree, expecting it to crumble down on top of him. But, the tree remained standing, perfectly stable. It looked exactly the same, but for one thing: "Dig" was no longer written on the stump. The words, "Welcome, Tom. Come back tomorrow," were now etched deeply into the tree, as if they had been there all along.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The One About The Forest - Part #3
He remembered the first time he'd seen the tree. It was when he turned 12.
Maiden Valley California, where he lived was surrounded by forested foothills that led to tree packed mountains that climbed a mere thousand feet above the town.
Tom and his family had made the short hike from their house into this forest dozens of times before. They had made it a Sunday tradition to picnic there in the lush green carpet of grass beneath the twisted live oaks, and eaten ham sandwiches and deviled eggs. Tom was the youngest and Kevin and Brandon his two older brothers would run off into the woods, and climb the rock formations and skip stones across the near by pond. Two of his sisters April and Laney would string simple white flowers together into wreaths and lay them on top of the water. It was idyllic in the most cliche' way, and if his father hadn't been in the army, voted for Regan twice and owned a slew of firearms, Tom would swear they were hippies.
Tom wouldn't run off into the woods after lunch though. He was only 7 then and sat with Megan, as she read under an impressive oak that shot at least a hundred feet into the sky. It's branches looked like the tentacles of a giant squid reaching out for some unknown prey. She was the oldest, and though at that age Tom never read himself he liked to watch Megan read. She didn't mind him at all and had said that it was comforting to have him there.
"If a beast ever comes to pull me into the forest you can pick up a stick and beat him away" she once said.
At the time, Tom had often day dreamed of what the beast would look like, but pictured only an animal like a bear or a wolf, even a rhino and he wasn't afraid.
Then one day Megan disappeared.
Tom remembered the night the police came. His family had sat in a crumpled pile on the living room carpet crying for what seemed like 15 hours, and he'd gone to bed without totally grasping the impact of it all.
Laying there he had dreamed of the beast again, but it had became something horrible, and disgusting. It was shrouded now in the shadows of the forest, black and shiny with many arms that sprung out from every inch of its body. The teeth looked like jagged rocks, and blood poured from its mouth. Its eyes were large and white and red veins formed stars for its pupils. Sometimes he still had the dream and it still frightened him. If this beast came out of the forest to take Megan, there was no way he could stop it.
The image had kept Tom away from the forest for 5 years. His family stopped their picnics after that and of course there was no more reading. The deluge of mourning gradually subsided however, and Tom had been surprised how well his family had kept things together. His mother eventually loosened the leash, and Tom was allowed to walk by himself to his friends house, or play in the park after school.
It was during this period of new found freedom that he felt the forest calling to him.
Now 15 years later, Tom came over the crest of a small hill and there at the end of a clearing stood the tree. "Old Man Giver" That was what he'd called it, and in remembering this he felt silly. At the time it was clever for a 12 year old to think of. It looked like an old man, and his father use to sing "Old Man River" in an ironic fashion when he worked in the yard. As well of course the tree had given him things.
He walked closer to the old man, and suddenly felt a sensation he hadn't felt in years. He stopped. He stared at the center of the tree with that gray flat stumpy scar of a lost limb. He moved forward, and ran his fingers across it, but there was no writing on it this time, not like there was the first time he saw it.
That year, when he was 12, the first time he had discovered this odd looking tree, he'd stood in this same spot.
There carved into the missing branches' stump were the words "Dig" and beneath it, an arrow had been etched pointing to to the ground. The letters and arrow looked like they had been there for years, and Tom turned his head to the ground and thought to himself that whatever had been buried there would probably be long gone, dug up years ago. Maybe there was nothing there to begin with, and the writer had simply wanted young boy explorers to look stupid, year after year. Tom wondered how many idiots had fallen for it. Still, he was intrigued. At last his knees hit the ground at the base of the tree. He moved away a pile of dead leaves and plunged his small hands into what was soft earth. Tom didn't dig for long, maybe 6 inches before he found it. It was a tin box about 8 by 10. It was yellow and aged, and rust had begun to eat away at the edges. It looked like it had once held fancy cookies or chocolates and there was an illustration of a large Victorian looking building, that reminded Tom of the old library in town. Beneath it he could tell there had been letters that had been sanded or scraped away.
"What are the odds" he thought? "This is right out of a movie".
He brushed as much dirt away as he could and began to pry at the lid. It was hard going and Tom began to think that maybe he would have to take it home and put it in his father's vise and work at it with screwdrivers and hammers to open it. Just then the lid popped off.
Tom put the box flat on the ground. Inside there were two pieces of paper, and a small book. He picked up the book first and began to thumb through it. The pages were dingy white and empty. This disappointed Tom who at first believed he had discovered something of value. Perhaps the journal of a conquistador or a miner. Maiden Valley had been a major mining town after all. There was nothing in the book however, until the last page. There, handwritten in cursive ink was one sentence.
"I didn't arrive in time. Someone else will have to get to her at a later date. Whoever you are I wish you luck."
These words gave young Tom a shiver, as if they were written to him.
Tom turned the book over to find more writing on the back cover. Just five words written in large letters.
"Put back in the box".
He picked up one of the papers next. He turned it over to reveal a photograph It was a class picture of a girl close to his age, maybe 13 years old. It looked like it had been taken in the last 10 years. Tom had never seen her before, but he thought it very odd. Written at the bottom of the photo in white letters were more words.
"This is for you."
Tom thought about all of this for almost a whole minute. Then he put the picture in his shirt pocket, and peeled the last piece of paper out of the bottom of the box. He turned it over.
"Bury the box where you found it" was all that was written.
Maiden Valley California, where he lived was surrounded by forested foothills that led to tree packed mountains that climbed a mere thousand feet above the town.
Tom and his family had made the short hike from their house into this forest dozens of times before. They had made it a Sunday tradition to picnic there in the lush green carpet of grass beneath the twisted live oaks, and eaten ham sandwiches and deviled eggs. Tom was the youngest and Kevin and Brandon his two older brothers would run off into the woods, and climb the rock formations and skip stones across the near by pond. Two of his sisters April and Laney would string simple white flowers together into wreaths and lay them on top of the water. It was idyllic in the most cliche' way, and if his father hadn't been in the army, voted for Regan twice and owned a slew of firearms, Tom would swear they were hippies.
Tom wouldn't run off into the woods after lunch though. He was only 7 then and sat with Megan, as she read under an impressive oak that shot at least a hundred feet into the sky. It's branches looked like the tentacles of a giant squid reaching out for some unknown prey. She was the oldest, and though at that age Tom never read himself he liked to watch Megan read. She didn't mind him at all and had said that it was comforting to have him there.
"If a beast ever comes to pull me into the forest you can pick up a stick and beat him away" she once said.
At the time, Tom had often day dreamed of what the beast would look like, but pictured only an animal like a bear or a wolf, even a rhino and he wasn't afraid.
Then one day Megan disappeared.
Tom remembered the night the police came. His family had sat in a crumpled pile on the living room carpet crying for what seemed like 15 hours, and he'd gone to bed without totally grasping the impact of it all.
Laying there he had dreamed of the beast again, but it had became something horrible, and disgusting. It was shrouded now in the shadows of the forest, black and shiny with many arms that sprung out from every inch of its body. The teeth looked like jagged rocks, and blood poured from its mouth. Its eyes were large and white and red veins formed stars for its pupils. Sometimes he still had the dream and it still frightened him. If this beast came out of the forest to take Megan, there was no way he could stop it.
The image had kept Tom away from the forest for 5 years. His family stopped their picnics after that and of course there was no more reading. The deluge of mourning gradually subsided however, and Tom had been surprised how well his family had kept things together. His mother eventually loosened the leash, and Tom was allowed to walk by himself to his friends house, or play in the park after school.
It was during this period of new found freedom that he felt the forest calling to him.
Now 15 years later, Tom came over the crest of a small hill and there at the end of a clearing stood the tree. "Old Man Giver" That was what he'd called it, and in remembering this he felt silly. At the time it was clever for a 12 year old to think of. It looked like an old man, and his father use to sing "Old Man River" in an ironic fashion when he worked in the yard. As well of course the tree had given him things.
He walked closer to the old man, and suddenly felt a sensation he hadn't felt in years. He stopped. He stared at the center of the tree with that gray flat stumpy scar of a lost limb. He moved forward, and ran his fingers across it, but there was no writing on it this time, not like there was the first time he saw it.
That year, when he was 12, the first time he had discovered this odd looking tree, he'd stood in this same spot.
There carved into the missing branches' stump were the words "Dig" and beneath it, an arrow had been etched pointing to to the ground. The letters and arrow looked like they had been there for years, and Tom turned his head to the ground and thought to himself that whatever had been buried there would probably be long gone, dug up years ago. Maybe there was nothing there to begin with, and the writer had simply wanted young boy explorers to look stupid, year after year. Tom wondered how many idiots had fallen for it. Still, he was intrigued. At last his knees hit the ground at the base of the tree. He moved away a pile of dead leaves and plunged his small hands into what was soft earth. Tom didn't dig for long, maybe 6 inches before he found it. It was a tin box about 8 by 10. It was yellow and aged, and rust had begun to eat away at the edges. It looked like it had once held fancy cookies or chocolates and there was an illustration of a large Victorian looking building, that reminded Tom of the old library in town. Beneath it he could tell there had been letters that had been sanded or scraped away.
"What are the odds" he thought? "This is right out of a movie".
He brushed as much dirt away as he could and began to pry at the lid. It was hard going and Tom began to think that maybe he would have to take it home and put it in his father's vise and work at it with screwdrivers and hammers to open it. Just then the lid popped off.
Tom put the box flat on the ground. Inside there were two pieces of paper, and a small book. He picked up the book first and began to thumb through it. The pages were dingy white and empty. This disappointed Tom who at first believed he had discovered something of value. Perhaps the journal of a conquistador or a miner. Maiden Valley had been a major mining town after all. There was nothing in the book however, until the last page. There, handwritten in cursive ink was one sentence.
"I didn't arrive in time. Someone else will have to get to her at a later date. Whoever you are I wish you luck."
These words gave young Tom a shiver, as if they were written to him.
Tom turned the book over to find more writing on the back cover. Just five words written in large letters.
"Put back in the box".
He picked up one of the papers next. He turned it over to reveal a photograph It was a class picture of a girl close to his age, maybe 13 years old. It looked like it had been taken in the last 10 years. Tom had never seen her before, but he thought it very odd. Written at the bottom of the photo in white letters were more words.
"This is for you."
Tom thought about all of this for almost a whole minute. Then he put the picture in his shirt pocket, and peeled the last piece of paper out of the bottom of the box. He turned it over.
"Bury the box where you found it" was all that was written.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The One About the Forest--Part 2
There once was a time when this whole situation would have seemed odd to him. After all, how hard could it possibly be to find his tree? He had spent countless hours in the forest, and he knew it better than he knew his old schoolmates. (He certainly liked it better, anyway.) As a young boy, he could navigate through the deepest parts of the woods at the darkest time of night and still be able to find his way around without the slightest hint of hesitation. And yet, here he was--wandering around in the middle of the day without so much as a glimpse of his favorite tree. Odd as that might seem, though, it was no surprise to Tom. He knew this place, and he knew that odd things tended to happen here. The truth was that there was something different about this forest.
It's not like the trees talked to Tom, or the flowers danced, or anything "fairy tale-ish" like that. The forest looked and sounded like any other. In fact, besides the strange events surrounding his human-shaped tree, Tom had never really seen anything that looked out of the ordinary. No, it wasn't about sights at all. Or sounds. It was more about a feeling--a feeling that could only come to someone who knew this place well enough to see with more than just a pair of eyes. Tom wouldn't have been able to describe it, even if he wanted to. But it still made his stomach lurch with excitement and fear every time he felt it. It was a feeling that compelled him to come back, again and again, speaking to him of mysteries that needed solving and work that needed to be done. The feeling made him convinced that there was something wonderful in this forest; something powerful and good, and if he could just find it, everything would be different. There was something else in the feeling, though. Something that made him cautious whenever he entered the woods. Something that spoke of mischief and darkness and despair. It was almost as if there were two forces battling against each other in this place, and Tom was allowed glimpses into this world, for reasons he didn't understand.
He could still remember the very first day the feeling came to him. That was the day that the forest became more than just a cherished spot for his childhood adventures. That was the day Tom realized that the forest had claimed him.
It's not like the trees talked to Tom, or the flowers danced, or anything "fairy tale-ish" like that. The forest looked and sounded like any other. In fact, besides the strange events surrounding his human-shaped tree, Tom had never really seen anything that looked out of the ordinary. No, it wasn't about sights at all. Or sounds. It was more about a feeling--a feeling that could only come to someone who knew this place well enough to see with more than just a pair of eyes. Tom wouldn't have been able to describe it, even if he wanted to. But it still made his stomach lurch with excitement and fear every time he felt it. It was a feeling that compelled him to come back, again and again, speaking to him of mysteries that needed solving and work that needed to be done. The feeling made him convinced that there was something wonderful in this forest; something powerful and good, and if he could just find it, everything would be different. There was something else in the feeling, though. Something that made him cautious whenever he entered the woods. Something that spoke of mischief and darkness and despair. It was almost as if there were two forces battling against each other in this place, and Tom was allowed glimpses into this world, for reasons he didn't understand.
He could still remember the very first day the feeling came to him. That was the day that the forest became more than just a cherished spot for his childhood adventures. That was the day Tom realized that the forest had claimed him.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Choices for the Story
Decisions...Decisions...
Option #1
She heard the north wall of her house crack and tear away, a sound that very few might be familiar with, but she knew in an instant what it was. The rumble of the house, the sudden beams of light bleeding through the cracks in her door and the gust of autumn wind that rushed in left her with little doubt as to what was happening. The wind brought with it the smell of trees.
A minute and half ago she had been asleep in her bed when an equally terrible sound had ripped her awake and violent shaking had tossed her to the floor. Now she was underneath her bed, tugging at her comforter to cover the gap between the floor and the box spring and moving a pair of shoes she hadn't seen for weeks in front of her. For a small moment she thought of her elbow which was still throbbing after her fall from the bed.
She stared at the doorway. She didn't know what would happen next, or why this had happened at all, and she waited for the door or the wall to her room to open.
Option #2
Tom had been wandering around the woods for at least an hour with no luck. He had been looking for an oddly shaped tree that resembled a man with one muscled arm and one withered one. He'd had a clever name for it in his youth and he'd been trying to think of it all last night as he lay in bed in his parents house, also with no luck.
It wasn't the bed he'd slept in as a child, or even the room. His dad had turned his old bedroom into a sewing workshop at his mother's insistence, and it was now a horrid pink and yellow shell of its former glory with piles of flowered fabric as far as the eye could see.
He felt free at last to get out of the house, which was about to be packed with older brothers and sisters and grandchildren. He relished the short walk he'd taken to the top of the hill above his parents house. Though the hill was steep, and dogs barked loudly from their side yard prisons, the smell and cool air of November was just what he needed. This sensation lasted just until he could see the old fence, and he remembered why he had climbed this hill in the first place.
The barbed wire fence held together by hundred year old posts was just as he remembered it, separating the street from the entrance to the woods a good 100 feet away. Right before he'd pushed down the old strands of rusted wire to step on the wild green grass, he turned his back to the forest. He looked at the valley and remembered the years he'd spent from birth to high school driving the streets, swimming in pools, clowning with his friends, kissing girls, and suffering in classrooms. Tom had spent a mostly happy childhood there. None of it however for better or much worse, held the magnitude of his time in those woods.
Now he was looking for a tree, and hoping that the item buried beneath it was still there.
Option #3
The chair that Tracy squirmed in was not helping her impatience. It appeared to have been built some time prior to the inauguration of Jimmy Carter. It looked like the bottom of an egg, but was much harder and though she had never sat in a giant egg before she could assume it was much more uncomfortable.
Her only distraction in the waiting room came from the other people she observed looking equally annoyed in the chairs next to, and across from her. They were all so different and Tracy who had a definitive talent for sorting and scrutinizing such strangers, was pleased with the collection that she had been provided with this morning.
The waiting room located on the second floor of a fairly anonymous looking building in a vaguely industrial part of town had no magazines. There were no pictures on the off-white walls or pamphlets in plastic holders on the end tables, and there was no receptionist to provide answers as to why she was here. There was simply a machine that dispensed numbers and a small wooden vintage looking sign above it with faded orange lettering that said "Take me please".
The pleasant woman's voice came over the intercom again and said "Number five, please proceed to room four in the hallway. All others please remain seated, and we will be with you shortly. Thank you for your patience."
A larger looking black man with a leather jacket, receding hair and a mustache stood and started to walk hesitantly to the hallway. He was older, at least 55 and he proceeded slowly until he reached a bend and disappeared around a corner. Tracy looked after him for another second then looked down at the number eight in her hand. She bit her bottom lip.
Option #1
She heard the north wall of her house crack and tear away, a sound that very few might be familiar with, but she knew in an instant what it was. The rumble of the house, the sudden beams of light bleeding through the cracks in her door and the gust of autumn wind that rushed in left her with little doubt as to what was happening. The wind brought with it the smell of trees.
A minute and half ago she had been asleep in her bed when an equally terrible sound had ripped her awake and violent shaking had tossed her to the floor. Now she was underneath her bed, tugging at her comforter to cover the gap between the floor and the box spring and moving a pair of shoes she hadn't seen for weeks in front of her. For a small moment she thought of her elbow which was still throbbing after her fall from the bed.
She stared at the doorway. She didn't know what would happen next, or why this had happened at all, and she waited for the door or the wall to her room to open.
Option #2
Tom had been wandering around the woods for at least an hour with no luck. He had been looking for an oddly shaped tree that resembled a man with one muscled arm and one withered one. He'd had a clever name for it in his youth and he'd been trying to think of it all last night as he lay in bed in his parents house, also with no luck.
It wasn't the bed he'd slept in as a child, or even the room. His dad had turned his old bedroom into a sewing workshop at his mother's insistence, and it was now a horrid pink and yellow shell of its former glory with piles of flowered fabric as far as the eye could see.
He felt free at last to get out of the house, which was about to be packed with older brothers and sisters and grandchildren. He relished the short walk he'd taken to the top of the hill above his parents house. Though the hill was steep, and dogs barked loudly from their side yard prisons, the smell and cool air of November was just what he needed. This sensation lasted just until he could see the old fence, and he remembered why he had climbed this hill in the first place.
The barbed wire fence held together by hundred year old posts was just as he remembered it, separating the street from the entrance to the woods a good 100 feet away. Right before he'd pushed down the old strands of rusted wire to step on the wild green grass, he turned his back to the forest. He looked at the valley and remembered the years he'd spent from birth to high school driving the streets, swimming in pools, clowning with his friends, kissing girls, and suffering in classrooms. Tom had spent a mostly happy childhood there. None of it however for better or much worse, held the magnitude of his time in those woods.
Now he was looking for a tree, and hoping that the item buried beneath it was still there.
Option #3
The chair that Tracy squirmed in was not helping her impatience. It appeared to have been built some time prior to the inauguration of Jimmy Carter. It looked like the bottom of an egg, but was much harder and though she had never sat in a giant egg before she could assume it was much more uncomfortable.
Her only distraction in the waiting room came from the other people she observed looking equally annoyed in the chairs next to, and across from her. They were all so different and Tracy who had a definitive talent for sorting and scrutinizing such strangers, was pleased with the collection that she had been provided with this morning.
The waiting room located on the second floor of a fairly anonymous looking building in a vaguely industrial part of town had no magazines. There were no pictures on the off-white walls or pamphlets in plastic holders on the end tables, and there was no receptionist to provide answers as to why she was here. There was simply a machine that dispensed numbers and a small wooden vintage looking sign above it with faded orange lettering that said "Take me please".
The pleasant woman's voice came over the intercom again and said "Number five, please proceed to room four in the hallway. All others please remain seated, and we will be with you shortly. Thank you for your patience."
A larger looking black man with a leather jacket, receding hair and a mustache stood and started to walk hesitantly to the hallway. He was older, at least 55 and he proceeded slowly until he reached a bend and disappeared around a corner. Tracy looked after him for another second then looked down at the number eight in her hand. She bit her bottom lip.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The One About The Forest - Part #1
Tom had been wandering around the woods for at least an hour with no luck. He had been looking for an oddly shaped tree that resembled a man with one muscled arm and one withered one. He'd had a clever name for it in his youth and he'd been trying to think of it all last night as he lay in bed in his parents house, also with no luck.
It wasn't the bed he'd slept in as a child, or even the room. His dad had turned his old bedroom into a sewing workshop at his mother's insistence, and it was now a horrid pink and yellow shell of its former glory with piles of flowered fabric as far as the eye could see.
He felt free at last to get out of the house, which was about to be packed with older brothers and sisters and grandchildren. He relished the short walk he'd taken to the top of the hill above his parents house. Though the hill was steep, and dogs barked loudly from their side yard prisons, the smell and cool air of November was just what he needed. This sensation lasted just until he could see the old fence, and he remembered why he had climbed this hill in the first place.
The barbed wire fence held together by hundred year old posts was just as he remembered it, separating the street from the entrance to the woods a good 100 feet away. Right before he'd pushed down the old strands of rusted wire to step on the wild green grass, he turned his back to the forest. He looked at the valley and remembered the years he'd spent from birth to high school driving the streets, swimming in pools, clowning with his friends, kissing girls, and suffering in classrooms. Tom had spent a mostly happy childhood there. None of it however for better or much worse, held the magnitude of his time in those woods.
Now he was looking for a tree, and hoping that the item buried beneath it was still there.
It wasn't the bed he'd slept in as a child, or even the room. His dad had turned his old bedroom into a sewing workshop at his mother's insistence, and it was now a horrid pink and yellow shell of its former glory with piles of flowered fabric as far as the eye could see.
He felt free at last to get out of the house, which was about to be packed with older brothers and sisters and grandchildren. He relished the short walk he'd taken to the top of the hill above his parents house. Though the hill was steep, and dogs barked loudly from their side yard prisons, the smell and cool air of November was just what he needed. This sensation lasted just until he could see the old fence, and he remembered why he had climbed this hill in the first place.
The barbed wire fence held together by hundred year old posts was just as he remembered it, separating the street from the entrance to the woods a good 100 feet away. Right before he'd pushed down the old strands of rusted wire to step on the wild green grass, he turned his back to the forest. He looked at the valley and remembered the years he'd spent from birth to high school driving the streets, swimming in pools, clowning with his friends, kissing girls, and suffering in classrooms. Tom had spent a mostly happy childhood there. None of it however for better or much worse, held the magnitude of his time in those woods.
Now he was looking for a tree, and hoping that the item buried beneath it was still there.
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