FFC: Five Ingredients Make a Story — The Tree of Life

Another attempt at Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge, details can be found here.

This story makes no sense, enjoy!

The Tree of Life

Nothing. Not even a bone. Where the hell was the corpse?

‘For shit’s sake!’ Jacob yelled.

Where there should have been a body, was a mere scorched outline. The whole body had been disintegrated. But how? Why here? Jacob looked around the forest, looking for something, anything at all.

There! He thought, What’s that?

He wandered over to the base of a tree. There was a smoldering object sitting on the ground. A book—no, a notebook. He picked it up and flicked through it. Every page was empty except for the first. Sections of the page were blackened and illegible, Jacob read:

‘…find the tree in the forest of the moon… destroy the tree of life…  the music box… not what it seems.’

Hmm, he thought, so this is why he was snooping around the forest. Find and destroy the tree of life, eh?

Jacob set off in search of the mysterious tree. He searched the forest for three hours before he stumbled upon a strange sight. It was a music box.

‘Interesting,’ he muttered.

Jacob fiddled around with the various buttons, switches and levers. But it was no use. The damned thing was broken.

‘Fuck it!’ He screamed. He kicked at the thing in the slim hope of fixing it. Because everyone knows if there’s a problem with technology, you kick the shit out of it.

He dropped to the ground, laid back and stared up at the sky. The stars were out, such a beautiful sight. He closed his eyes, all of his efforts had exhausted him.

Tree of life, he thought, who was I kidding?

Mere seconds after closing his eyes, the ground below him opened, dropping him six feet to land on his ass. He looked up. A rectangular hole had opened underneath him.

It must have been triggered by that bloody music box.

‘But that’s impossible,’ he said.

‘What’s that, young master?’ A voice called, ‘Why have you come to my humble abode?’

Jacob turned around, taking in his surroundings. He was in a subterranean grove, glowing with an eerie blue light. In truth, it was much less of a grove, and more a single tree.

‘I have come to kill the tree of life,’ Jacob stated.

‘Thee hath come to kill me?’ It said.

‘I, Jacob Wold, have come to do the deed described in this here book.’ He thrust the notebook towards the tree, who, unsurprisingly, couldn’t see, as it had no eyes.

‘I am the tree of life, the tree of all things living,’ it said, ‘thee cannot harm me.’

‘You know what?’ Jacob said, ‘Let’s give you a run for your money.’ He tried for hours on end to humble the arrogant tree. However, it was useless, the tree could not be harmed.

‘See, I am the tree of life, thee can do no harm to me.’

‘Yeah, fuck you,’ Jacob said.

Two screams pierced the still air of the grove. The tree screamed in pain, Jacob in ecstasy—he had defeated the tree of life, with but one profane statement! The tree died, as did everything else.

The End?

Novel Musings — What I Want From a Novel

Here we are again.

It has been a while since I have graced you all with my presence. But I thought this was the perfect time to talk about what I want from a novel.

Have you ever asked yourself what it is that you want from a novel?

I have. You know what I answered with? A bloody 500 word essay on what I want. It began as what I want from a novel and gradually deteriorated into a stinking pile of what I want from life. Here’s a revised version—less of a stinking pile, well, less of a pile—of my answer.

When I think about what I want from a book, I think of one thing: emotion. I want to feel something. For shit’s sake, give me something to think about and make me care! I ultimately want a novel with meaning. True meaning. Something that grabs you by the heart muscle and tears it out. Kinda. No, okay maybe not tearing it out. But you get the picture: a novel that makes you feel.

Now, isn’t that all we ever strive for? To feel something? To feel anything at all? To reassure ourselves that we are indeed human, that we do indeed have the capacity for normal human emotion? Personally, I answer yes to all.

Yes, I am a guy. Yes, I bottle up emotion. But no, no, no we don’t have to hide our emotions. We, as humans, are allowed to feel something, we are allowed to admit that some scene—whether it be from a movie, book, television program or, hell, even if it was from viewing that dirty, twisted… Newspaper article—had an impact upon us, that it almost brought us to tears.

Who gives a shit if it did?

Actually, you should be happy that you were brought to tears, welcome to being human!

That’s not to say that to be human you must cry every night. Rather, try to embrace whatever feelings are evoked from the depths of your emotionally-fortified self.

This musing on life and emotion has led me to uncover the three main themes I want to weave into my first novel. Three themes that will hopefully make the reader feel something. These are: loss, love and inevitability.

Thoughts, comments, abuse or whatever else you want to lay on my doormat, are welcome in the comments below.

Novel Musings — The Sinking of the First-Draft Ship

Hello there,

Although I am currently lacking visitors to this blog, I am going to continue ranting and raving in the futile hope that one day some unfortunate straggler stumbles upon it.

I think I have fizzled out. I started writing a first draft for a novel a few months ago, at the time I was really excited for it. But, as I have progressed I have found that it’s not the story that I want, or need, to write. I may pick it back up in the future, but for now I am going to continue writing short stories to practice my craft and allow my mind to muse over possible ideas for the future.

I have been thinking about why it is that my current story failed. I think I have narrowed it down to two possible reasons:

1) I simply can’t sympathise with the protagonist. Her motivation is revenge for the deaths of her family members and this burning desire is what drives her. When I first set out on the quest to write, I thought that I could use this effectively. Turns out I can’t. I am not one to hold grudges, and as of this moment, I haven’t lost anyone truly close to me.

2) The story wasn’t planned, I had no direction. This resulted in me not knowing where to head, I had no chosen destination for the story. Hell, I didn’t even know who, or what, the antagonist was.

This failure, although a disappointment as I have written 8k words (May seem small to people who are somewhat experienced), has left me determined to discover a story I truly want to write. It has also taught me that mapping out a story is definitely worth-while.

There you go, just an update on where I am as an amateur writer. Hopefully, as this blog progresses, you will all see my writing progress, as well me head towards my ultimate goal: to finish a novel.

‘Go forth, post, into the maelstrom.’

-BM

Okay, as an aside. All of the pictures on this blog have been made in paint. So, I would like some feedback (If anyone reads this), what are your thoughts on my paint handiwork? Also, the picture above is a musing that I may turn into story format, either short or novel in length. Thoughts, ideas and criticism welcomed.

FFC: Five Titles Make A Challenge — Bright Stars Gone to Black

Hello, hello. This is my first attempt at one of Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenges. This week, the aim was to write a short story (No more than 1000 words) from a selection of five titles, or we could rearrange the words. The details can be found at his website here.

Bright stars gone to black.

‘Ma, come quick,’ I’d call, ‘the stars are out, the stars!’

She would glance up from her bed, the simple movement taxing her frail body heavily, and look at me with sullen contempt, as if I were a prancing imp taunting her lack of mobility. Of course, I could not begin to understand the complexities of life. I were only a young boy, wanting nothing more than to share the night’s stars whilst embraced by my own bright star, I knew nothing of illnesses. The contemptuous gaze would swiftly extinguish my hope, like a candle’s flame reduced to nothing more than a wisp of black, dissipating smoke. My mother would then lay her head upon her pillow and the smoking candle would be soon forgotten.

For hours I would lie alone, staring at the bright night’s sky. I would lose myself in the stars, the countless shining beacons of hope, of life. When lost in the stars, the rules binding us to this Earth are forgotten, anything is possible. It is under those stars, lost in their beauty and deception, that I witnessed the destruction of the most beautiful of all the great beacons. I witnessed the brightest star fade into blackness.

The grass was cool upon my back, the air was crisp and the stars were bright. The constellation of the princess, Andromeda, was visible that night. I stared longingly at the stars, wishing that they would call to me and allow me to escape the unfair world that I inhabited. I traced the stars with my eyes.

‘Charlie,’ whispered the wind, ‘Charlie, come to me.’

I sat up and looked for the source of the voice. The yard was empty, the house was dark, my mother asleep and the stars bright.

‘Charlie,’ the voice said, ‘you know where I am, come to me.’

I slowly raised my head to gaze again at the princess of the stars. I had hoped with all my heart that I was right, even though my hope was far-fetched. Hope became joy, as the princess extended a celestial hand from the night’s sky. As the hand made contact with my body, my vision blurred and turned to white.

I awoke to the cackling of an old lady. ‘Oh, I fooled you, boy,’ she laughed, ‘I fooled you. The same as all of your predecessors. You are the same.’

My vision swam as I tried to sit up. ‘Where… Where am I?’ I asked.

‘You are in the celestial tower of the Crone, boy, you do not get to ask me questions.’

‘Where is the princess?’ I asked.

‘I said no questions,’ she snapped, ‘silly little boy.’ The Crone continued her cackling, it appeared as though she was preparing something in the corner of the room. I glanced around, taking in the great hall and its starry interior. Suspended in cages above me were skeletons of small humans. I suppressed a shiver and instead looked to the single shining star in an alcove. The star flickered, as if it were a lamp with a faulty globe.

On, off, on, off, on.

‘Oh, so you’ve noticed it have you?’ The Crone laughed, ‘That there is the most precious of all stars. Well, to you at least.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you hard of hearing, boy?’ She asked, ‘Or slow of mind? I said no questions, everything shall become clear soon enough.’ The Crone began to sing a tune, whilst continuing her fiddling in her corner.

I had to get out of there. The crazy celestial hag looked as though she planned to eat me, I was trapped in her house, my only company skeletons, and I had a strange feeling about the star, the way it flickered from shining gold to the blackest of blacks.

On, off, on, off, on.

Oh, I fooled the boy. Oh, yes I did. Oh, I fooled the boy. Oh, he will do as I bid. Oh, I fooled the boy,’ the Crone sang.

All I could do was sit, listening to the old hag sing her twisted, unsettling song and watch the star.

On, off, on, off.

It stopped. The star didn’t return to golden light, an ominous sign.

Oh, I beat the boy. Beat, beat, beat. Oh, I fooled the boy. Time to eat,’ she let her voice trail off. The Crone turned to me, knife in hand, malicious grin painted upon her wrinkled, old face.

‘Are you ready, boy?’ She asked, ‘are you ready to serve? The same as those who have come before you, you are,’ she licked her lips.

‘You can’t eat me,’ I stated defiantly. Unfortunately my voice cracked, betraying my false sense of confidence. This evoked a hearty cackle from the old Crone, a sound that sent shivers down my spine.

‘Oh, but I beat you fair and square,’ she said, ‘and the only way I could let you go is if that star turns to black.’ She pointed to the star in the alcove.

‘No, how can this be? This has never happened before!’

The Crone’s scream tore the very fabric of my supposed existence, it cut through the starry surroundings of the hall. My vision went white.

I awoke once again upon my back. Above me was the night’s sky, only this time it was different. The whole sky was filled with stars, creating a sheet of golden light. That is, except for the one point directly above me. There was one black spot, as if a star were missing.

Ma, come quick,’ I called, ‘the stars are out, the stars!’

I ran back into the house. But I was not met with the usual look of contempt. Rather, I was met with a stillness so thick and so silent that I was afraid to move.

‘Ma? Ma, what’s wrong?’

That was the night my brightest star turned to black.

The Structurally-Sound Beginning

‘Hello there, wanderer,’ the Blog Master calls, ‘welcome to my new blog!’

What the Blog Master doesn’t realise is that nobody is aware of his blog. That nobody gives a shit about his blog. That his blog is just a single particle of internet ramble amidst the millions of other particles that make up the internet’s Blogosphere. What he doesn’t realise is that nobody is ever going to care about his writing.

‘Hey, you,’ he calls, ‘yes, Narrator, you. I don’t appreciate all of this pessimism on my newly created blog.’ He stares up at the limitless space above him, ‘See all of that space? I shall fill as much of it as I see fit, I will create a blog from humble beginnings, and if fate so has is it, to humble endings. But I will not give in to your pessimism on the first day!’

The Blog Master proceeds to place the first brick upon the WordPress hill and inscribes a note. This note reads:

The Structurally Sound Beginning.

There you have it folks (Or no one, if fate so has it), the start of my blog. This post is kind of pointless, but I just need a break from writing my novel. Unsure if I’ll continue writing posts in this fashion, might get annoying for the reader(s?), but I did have some fun writing it. I am also unsure, at this point in time, where I want to go with this blog. All I know is I will continue to lay the bricks and build upon the foundation of this here post.

‘Go forth, post, into the maelstrom.’

-BM