Bonfire at the Island

I just wrote this for writer's craft. It's a first draft. Critiques are welcomed and needed!

The silence filled our ears with such great force that it was hard to look at anyone without being caught in their unwanted gaze forever. This is what it had come to. Our four years together being ended on an island in the middle of a lake, isolated from civilization but in proximity of our fear. We had never been so apart from the world, or ourselves. Somewhere along the lines of our adolescence, we had broken those bonds created so long ago, only to forge new ones that we knew, subconsciously, would never last through the strains of time. And so, we were there for one last instant, one last try, some of us wanting to get closure on the past and move towards the future, others trying to light the flames that had seemingly been extinguished so long ago.

The fire cracked and sparked all around us, the flames licking the sky. Soon, the rocks became heated and glowed under the shadows of the moon. One giant splintering scream and an enormous piece of hickory burst in the middle of the pit, releasing a beautiful, warming smell that filled our senses with the familiar scent of home. We were all off somewhere, trying not to be there because, frankly, it was too disheartening. Some gazes were fixed upon the petrified logs that encircled the fire pit or the green moss that spurted from their ends, others on the circular wall that was created by the lofty fir trees blanketed by the shadowy night. All that remained of our faces as we encircled the pit was the shadow that revealed only a dim aura of light; was this reality, or was it truth? What we didn’t know was that the answer resided within our ability to feel.

Someone grabbed the guitar and gently started to pluck its strings, and in a faint, but confident voice, began to chant the familiar song. One finger after the other, weaving the notes in and out of the strings, entrancing us with the melodic movement of the sound. The fire created a hue around her, making her out to be something greater than she was, but for that moment, she was great. All our moments together, all our spent tears that had stained the others’ shoulder, all those dreams we held so close we all being brought back to life by the music. We had become the song; the song that, no matter where we ended up after we left this place, what we decided to do, we would always hum and bring ourselves back to the fire pit.

“When was the last time, really, that we were all together?”

The voice echoed and reverberated in our ears, but we were so absorbed by the dance of the fire and the entrancement of the music that we only stared into the pit. Fire, the destroyer of life, was somehow bringing us all together for a probable last time, and we knew it, but we didn’t care. All that mattered was us; weather, individual circumstance, time itself became secondary. It didn’t matter, and did it, we once thought to ourselves, in the end? We all knew that we were heading down that inevitable structured road, but for one mere moment, we had us. And, we knew, that it would all go down beautifully from here.

For an instant, for a brief collision of joy, we were pure. Nothing can and ever will be able to take that away from us. We were more than just friends; we were souls all strapped together under the coronet of stars, brought together out of the shackles of our own oppression to become one with each other and just be. Forgotten were the predisposed notions of popularity and caste; we were just human beings with a bond that was deeper than the roots of the trees that surrounded us, closer to the heavens than the flames of the fire that tried to grab hold of the stars, stronger and older than the rocks that kept the fire from engulfing the island. We became the truth. As the fire and the music subsided, tears began to rain down from the heavens. Only our eyes shone as brightly as the moon. As we elevated our necks towards the sky, the rain splashed our faces, cleansing us of our ill-gotten righteousness and our sanctimonious ideals. We were pure, our eternity in a grain of sand.

When I first saw this, I said to myself, "Oh, lovely, another dialogue-less, attempting-to-be-deep piece of crap that I'm going to have to force myself to read from here on out."

But no. You made my day. You started with a bang, and ended with an even louder one.

My most favorite line(s): "One giant splintering scream and an enormous piece of hickory burst in the middle of the pit, releasing a beautiful, warming smell that filled our senses with the familiar scent of home. We were all off somewhere, trying not to be there because, frankly, it was too disheartening."

That really appealed to me for some reason- it was absolutely beautiful and captivated your attention like nothing else. From them on, there were no doubts about your ability in my mind.

Anyway...excellent piece. See you around!

Well, I'm certainly glad that you didn't think it was another dialogue-less attempting to be deep piece of crap. lol. You made my day by me making your day! Thanks for the crit.

Wow. I usually cannot stand thoroughly descriptive pieces without an ounce of storyline or dialogue. But this, of course, is an exception to the rule. Not only is the writing breathtaking, but there is real emotion and depth here. The images of the "dance of the fire" and the "weaving notes of the guitar" were so real, not to mention metaphoric.

Caught a few errors:

All that mattered was us; weather, individual circumstance, time itself became secondary. It didn’t matter, and did it, we once thought to ourselves, in the end?

Whether.

Nothing can and never will be able to take that away from us.

"Nothing can and ever will be..." If you keep the "never" in, it becomes a double negative, and yeah. Those can be tricky.


Anyhow, nice job with this. I'm surprised more people haven't looked into it. It's featured too ...

I changed the negation, but 'weather' is meant to be like that . . . maybe I'll have to change it to another word. Thanks!

Ohhhh. Whoops, I get it now. Sorry, my mistake!

Um...I almost did think this was overly descriptive. In writing, generally, less is more. Today it is.

"...was this reality, or was it truth?" Reality and truth are too similar to be contrasted here. And if you mean "truth" in a deeper, more complex sense, do some explaining, because the statement isn't strong enough to stand on its own.

In the next section, you begin to describe a "her," but this gets lost in the rest of the piece because in every other paragraph you are talking about a group of people. Unless I am mistaken and it's just these two people through the entire thing? BUT, since you DO start talking about a definite two person "we" in this paragraph, you need to change: "...All our moments together, all our spent tears that had stained the others’ shoulder..." to "stained the other's shoulder." You are only talking about one person, one OTHER. Unless you're not. Then you need to take that particular sentence away from the description of "her."

I think I would have liked the entire thing better if you had put in some memories, particular events, particular feelings, or...something. And this may appeal to some of the younger crowd who haven't graduated from high school, but I have and it just doesn't tug on my heart strings like it should.

But, I don't mean to be overly critical, because that wouldn't do any good. You are obviously a very talented writer, and so I have faith that you can do better than this. Lyrically: it was well done. It was well written. Good job on that, and I honestly look forward to reading more of your pieces.

-Sarah

Well I have to say a nice read. I see that it is piece of the month. Well deserved*pats on back*

your a writer , right. how many books have you written so far. this was exelent like the gentle glow of the fire.
Stuff from tolkien isnt better than this ( exept the bit about petrified logs).
If your not a writer , just an ordinary girl whoes into the beetles i will personally stab my self using my own toe nail.


you dont half to read this bit, i just felt like writing somthing

When i went to manchester for chrismas , thousands upon thousands of yaks , cows and vairious farm animals lay scattered across the grey ,puddle invested roads and small, dodgy patches of grass known as parks.These poor creatures had suffured the same fate as those in Thialand . The Black death .
The good peoples of Manchester had been corrupted by this sudden feast of fresh and rotten meat; nearly each carcass had its own feeder , humans gauging them-selfs on the animals fleshy bodies with strips of mussles and viens hanging from there blood soaked teeth, I looked around in anger at the barbaric act of disrispect , These anmals lived , they had lives , feelings , children (calfs) too , did they not . At this i drew my blade which was in the shape of salt-dispenser and began dividing the bodies of the vile humans into seperate limbs and body parts . After i had slayne all the people i looked around once more at the scene , what have I done? at this a stabbed myself repeatidly until i fell beside the mangled corpse of a goat .

Haha you're funny . . . nope, haven't written any books . . . far too impatient. So yup, I'm just an ordinary girl that's into the Beetles, but don't stab yourself with your toenail, that's gross. Pick something more sanitary! (Have I ever told anyone I have a foot phobia?) Anyway, thanks for the crits guys.