Hanging Tree

[Mangara]

Hello.

I'm just playing about with an idea in my head. I'm pretty new to this writing business so if this is terrible I apologise.

Thanks for looking


This was my sister’s tree until she was taken from us. She used to snuggle down into these roots like arms and laze away the summer. She didn’t know that I used to follow her here and watch her talk to the woods around her. From her I learnt so much; the location of north from the moss on the trees, the alarm call of the birds that heralded approaching danger, she was one with this place.

As I look up I can still see her final resting place, the frayed rope fragments still clinging on to the knot of wood where Connie bid the world goodbye. I was the first to find her; the minute she was missing I knew exactly where to look. This was her sanctuary from the anger of things beyond our control, of a parent who could not contain his rage and took to using his fists to release it.

As I begin to climb it all comes back to me.

************************************

It started with mother, the pink purple bruise below one eye that appeared one day. I was too young at the time to notice her petty excuses, the number of accidents never seeming odd to my juvenile mind.

Next was Connie, who suffered at the hands of puberty immensely, the hormones possessing her, manipulating her and empowering her. She began to stand up to father, to resist his control, to seek independence. Father responded as he only knew how; with force.

Connie was broken, the fight leaking out of her numerous lacerations and bruises. She lost all contact with the outside world as father weaved a web of lies to cover his tracks. We were removed from school and locked in our rooms. Connie and I devised a knocking language to communicate through the thin plasterboard walls.

One day the knocking stopped.

Shouting followed. The muffled conversations were difficult to interpret through the thick floorboards but I caught enough to know something terrible had happened.

A key turned in the lock. I leapt to my feet, pressing myself close to the wall where the opening door would cover me from the brunt of father’s pummelling. Mother stumbled into the room and fell, her eyes catching mine as blood poured from her scalp. I warily lowered myself to the floor, wary of not knowing my father’s location.

I swept the blood caked hair from her face and using my glass of water from my bedside began to wash the wound. Mother was now semi-conscious, no longer opening her eyes to my voice. The blood gushed from the round and formed an expanding glistening sticky mess on everything. I knew I could do nothing but hold her close as I lost her.

As I crept from the room it was evident Father was gone. I raced down the stairs and out the front door which now lay off its hinges. Father’s car was gone. Later I would discover he too died, driving in rage he hit a tree at over ninety miles an hour, the forces literally tearing the base of his skull in two.

I raced straight for the tree, expecting to be met with Connie weeping below it, covered in the dusty dirt and seed pods that litter its base. Instead she was suspended, hanging limp and lifeless and swaying gently in the breeze.

Unable to cope I ran.

*********************************************


Now I have returned, a man grown, alone and lost. I pass the rope between my hands, its gentle burn the only feeling I have left. I dangle my legs off the branch and look out across the estate where I grew up and lost everything I knew.

I lower the rope across my neck, and prepare to jump.

The wind is blowing furiously; the branch is swaying making it hard to hold on.

It begins to bend down towards my left as if a force is pulling it down.

Something is touching my left hand; it’s warm, and familiar.

I turn my head to see, and there sits Connie as I remember her, not a year older.

I remember no more.

********************************************************

 

[Bowler1]

Not bad, not bad at all. I’m not a fan of first person and here, where the character is remembering the past and/or flashback, it felt a little unusual to me. The past being written in past tense and moving to present tense, or at least I think this is what happens. The descriptive language used didn’t feel very personal, despite the narrative being very personal. What I’m trying to say is that because it is a character remembering past events, the word choice is very adult usage, for what are juvenile events, or not very emotive words for what should be a nerve racking event. So there is a distance in your writing because of the tone selected, which doesn’t drive home the emotional response for me. Get this right and you’ll have me in tears, but not yet, the feel isn’t there for me at this moment. I hope this is clear, but if not let me know and I’ll try and explain my thoughts again.

A full stop can be a great thing. There was some comma usage that I felt would have been better served with a full stop. Semi’s too. A ; should be used very sparingly I think. However comma and semis are both subjective, so good luck with this advice.

This idea of yours is developed in three short sections which could and should be expanded upon I think. You could use 1st person present for current events and use 3rd person close for remembering past events (see, you got my interest) to transport the reader back and forth in sections/chapters. Certainly if the idea is to grow I think you’ll need more writing tools than 1st person narration to pull it off. Anyway, I liked it and I think you have some skill and potential on show here – good job.

 

[J Riff]

Mild sentence structure confusion, maybe even the 1st sentence could be made clearer, it could seem as if the tree was taken away from us, plus, always good to get character names in asap.

This was my sister’s (Connie's) tree until she was taken from us. She used to snuggle down into these roots like (they were) arms and laze away the summer (days). (the whole summer - didn't come in at night?) She didn’t know that I used to follow her (here) and watch(listen to) her talk to the woods around her. From her I learnt(learned) so much; the location (direction) of north from moss on the trees, the alarm call of the birds that heralded approaching danger, (she was one with this place.) Separate sentence?

As I look up I can still see her final resting place, the frayed rope fragments still clinging on to the knot of wood where Connie (had) bid the world goodbye. I was the (first) one who found her(to find her); the minute she was missing I knew exactly where to look. This was her sanctuary, away from the anger (caused by) of things beyond our control, away from (her escape from) a parent who could not contain his rage and took to using his fists to release it.

Just suggestions, but make sure each sentence is logical. Italics - avoid if you can.

 

[Dan Jones]

Hey Howdy Hey, Mangara.

First up: I really like it. J Riff makes some good points about sentence structure (some are too long), but the events, the character and the drama are all evident and very real. There are a few nice touches and I read with interest until the end. Very vivid imagery and a nice contrast between the serenity of the woods (death) and the horror of the house (death). So a nice introduction thematically, too.

Thanks for posting, and good luck with the rest!

A few points I picked up along the way are noted below.

~

This was my sister’s - I'd add Connie's name here to remove any confusion. The first read through had me double-checking. So "this was my sister Connie's tree...) tree until she was taken from us. She used to snuggle down into these roots like arms and laze away the summer. She didn’t know that I used to follow her here and watch her talk to the woods around her. From her I learnt so much; the location of north from the moss on the trees, the alarm call of the birds that heralded approaching danger, she was one with this place.

As I look up I can still see her final resting place, the frayed rope fragments still clinging on to the knot of wood where Connie bid the world goodbye. I was the first to find her; the minute she was missing I knew exactly where to look. This was her sanctuary from the anger of things beyond our control, of - not "of", but "from" - a parent who could not contain his rage and took to using his fists to release it.

As I begin to climb it all comes back to me.

************************************

It started with mother, the pink purple bruise below one eye that appeared one day. I was too young at the time to notice her petty excuses, the number of accidents never seeming odd to my juvenile mind.

Next was Connie, who suffered at the hands of puberty immensely, the hormones possessing her, manipulating her and empowering her. She began to stand up to father, to resist his control, to seek independence. Father responded as he only knew how; with force.

Connie was broken, the fight leaking out of her numerous lacerations and bruises. She lost all contact with the outside world as father weaved a web of lies to cover his tracks. We were removed from school and locked in our rooms. Connie and I devised a knocking language to communicate through the thin plasterboard walls.

One day the knocking stopped.

Shouting followed. The muffled conversations were difficult to interpret through the thick floorboards but I caught enough to know something terrible had happened.

A key turned in the lock. I leapt to my feet, pressing myself close to the wall where the opening door would cover me from the brunt of father’s pummelling. Mother stumbled into the room and fell, her eyes catching mine as blood poured from her scalp. I warily lowered myself to the floor, wary of not knowing my father’s location.

I swept the blood caked hair from her face and using my glass of water from my bedside began to wash the wound. Mother was now semi-conscious, no longer opening her eyes to my voice. The blood gushed from the round - should be "wound" - and formed an expanding glistening sticky mess - this seems like one word too many - on everything. I knew I could do nothing but hold her close as I lost her.

As I crept from the room it was evident Father - you capitalise Father here but not earlier. Be consistent - was gone. I raced down the stairs and out the front door which now lay off its hinges. Father’s car was gone. Later I would discover he too died. - I'd add a stop here. Driving in rage he hit a tree at over ninety miles an hour, the forces literally tearing the base of his skull in two.

I raced straight for the tree, expecting to be met with Connie weeping below it, covered in the dusty dirt and seed pods that litter its base. Instead she was suspended, hanging limp and lifeless and swaying gently in the breeze.

Unable to cope I ran.

*********************************************


Now I have returned, a man grown, alone and lost. - Do we need to be told this? Can you not show us some way that he's older? Maybe the size of his hands? I pass the rope between my hands, its gentle burn the only feeling I have left. I dangle my legs off the branch and look out across the estate where I grew up and lost everything I knew.

I lower the rope across my neck, and prepare to jump.

The wind is blowing furiously; the branch is swaying making it hard to hold on.

It begins to bend down towards my left as if a force is pulling it down.

Something is touching my left hand; it’s warm, and familiar.

I turn my head to see, and there sits Connie as I remember her, not a year older.

I remember no more.

********************************************************

 

[BrisGirl]

Mangara,

You say that you are playing with some ideas, and would like some feedback, so I'll give you some of my thoughts on reading this.

I think your writing style is quite beautiful. Your main character is telling us about people that he cares deeply about, and I think you manage to have this love come through in the writing. This is important, because it makes me (the reader) care about the people in the story, too.

I like the imagery where Connie snuggles up to the tree as if it has arms to embrace her. You could improve on the exact wording by following some of the tips from J Riff above, but overall, I like the idea of your writing style.

You are dealing with some very heavy subject matter here in this story. I think you are still exploring what to do with this, and how to develop the story further. As it is now, we have a large amount of very confronting material crammed into quite a short space. As you expand on this story, remember to pace yourself. Approach death and grief with tact, give it the space it needs, reveal slowly. Reveal graphic details only when needed - personally, I think that by using descriptions of blood and graphic details sparingly, you can achieve a greater impact. Use contrast (you are already doing this, btw). Describe the children's love for their mother, perhaps describe her gentle nature, and use this to contrast the treatment she receives from the father in the story.

I’m not a fan of first person and here, where the character is remembering the past and/or flashback, it felt a little unusual to me.

Bowler1 is not sure about using 1st person point of view, but personally, I don't have a problem with that. I think the narrator's emotions are so important for the story you are developing here, and I think 1st person is a great way to communicate those to the reader. Yes, it's not a perfect piece of writing, but keep exploring and experimenting.

One problem with the 1st person point of view, however, is that it is not automatically revealed to the reader whether the narrator is male or female. Given the treatment of the females in this story, and how their gender becomes very relevant early on in the piece, I'd suggest that you reveal the gender of the narrator much earlier.