Young Writers Society

And So Burned the Rabbit Hole
Something extraordinarily magical happens to a toad’s voice when a set of chicken wings are attached to its shoulder bumps. Of course you have to do the hard work of ripping the wings off the chicken and thrusting them into the toad.
But once the dirty bit’s over, then the ballads which they sing are worth the labour.
If you haven’t kept your eyes closed, then by now you would’ve noticed the one that hovers around my knees.
His baritone is phenomenal isn’t it?
These are the perfect companions to walk with.
But unfortunately, if you walk too fast then they get squished under your feet.
They can be a real burden in times of hurry; when you’re going to meet your lover for example.
Not that he’s my lover, just a friend.
And no, I am not blushing; it’s just that my face turns red because of the sun.
I know it’s shady, but the sunlight peeking through the crevices in the canopy above are enough to redden my skin.
The golden butterflies that they paint upon the forest floor are beautiful aren’t they?
See, every dreadful thing has some benefits.
Take these banyan trees…for examp…
*Stares away into space*
What? Oh, it’s nothing.
It’s just that these barks...their grotesque folds…they remind me of my father’s face when he had shot my mother in the head.
“Happy birthday little princess.” He had grinned, with bits of bloody skull still stuck on his face.
My life was spared only because my father liked young girls in bed. I had just turned fourteen then.
I have been afraid of the dark ever since.
But it’s OK.
I have nothing to fear in the forest.
No shadows stalk me here – not even my own. Neither are there any alleys where my best friend can molest me once again. And the Sun is never suffocated by the darkness of the night.
In the forest, I walk without dread.
Only butterflies who like to kiss my elbows and the pleasant air which twirls my locks accompany me here.
But I like the company of the stream the most.
If you sniff the air you will smell him in your nostrils. The scent always reminds me of my mother and her cocaine.
See the purple grass on its shores? They always gossip about the stream’s love affairs.
“Those flirty cherry blossoms!” It squeals. “They laugh like witches with ugly warts. I bet they put a spell on him.” And one can literally see them acquire a deeper shade of purple.
There is no reflection whenever I peer into the depths of the stream – it knows that I hate mirrors. In fact, I haven’t seen one in seven years.
I can’t bear to look at my crooked nose and my swollen lips -- it reminds me of my father.
Let’s just talk about something else shall we?
Do you see the marble building up that tiny hill?
I call it the temple – that’s where we are going.
There’s no god to preach in there, but I do pray with my pencil and a paper.
The sound of scribbling graphite reverberates like sacred hymns and the solitude which my words capture is the god that I revere.
Poetry is the only prayer that has ever given me faith.
Do you have any siblings?
I had a brother.
Besides the forest, he was the only one who truly loved me.
I still remember the day he had died.
“Don’t leave me alone in the dark.” He had pleaded.
But I had left him anyway, only to find him dead the next hour.
My delirious mother had attempted to murder me – she was convinced that I had poisoned my sweet little brother. After all, he was a son and I was not.
I had to sleep in the streets for three weeks in order to save my life.
Am I depressing you?
Thank god. Sometimes I get too whiny.
I hope you can climb the steps – they are a bit too much, but the view from above is breathtaking.
And the boy with the paintbrush – you’ll love to meet him.
I remember that I had been aghast when I had found him in the temple for the first time.
The forest had been a sanctuary for me until now – a protective womb away from the fangs of the world. But then someone had penetrated its walls.
I had felt betrayed, traumatised, agonised, vulnerable!
Everything, it had seemed, was destroyed.
But then he had smiled through his long, black hair and I had noticed the scar that transversed his face.
Through his watery, brown eyes I had peered down into his soul and I read a familiar story.
Just like me, he was unnamed, with only his art to identify himself. And he too believed in the same god that I revered.
He never spit on me and he didn’t care that I was black – it was the first time I had met someone like him.
Only seven days have passed since we have met, but I have known him forever.
I am sure you’ll love him too. I mean, as a friend.
Come, mind the marble floor – it’s a bit too slippery.
The pearl curtains are wonderful aren’t they?
Their chimes, when the wind blows, are the most soothing thing ever.
He usually paints in the central room.
The sunlight filtering through the glass dome above amalgamates with the cold air to form a curious mixture which he loves.
Oh, he isn’t here?
Probably he’s decided to paint in the balcony this time.
Not here either.
You wait here; maybe the butterflies will know where he is.

She returns with a face drained of blood – the boy with the paintbrush has left.
The trauma of being abandoned once again makes her collapse.
With suffocated sobs she weeps, her claws digging into the marble.
It’s because of my ugliness, isn’t it?
I should’ve known.
I should’ve never allowed him to stay in the forest!

Suddenly, her wails go silent.
There’s a box wrapped in muslin with a letter besides the easel on which he painted.
With moist eyes she reads the letter.
‘The time for my departure has come. The freedom has always been inside of us.’
The scarlet muslin rustles like a viper in her hands.
The lid trembles as she hesitantly opens the box.
A face stares back from inside.
The crooked nose…those swollen lips…the brown skin…
It’s a mirror!
And…and…she looks beautiful!

***

It’s the first time that night has descended upon the forest.
Engulfed in the blazing inferno, it glitters like a fiery sun in the indigo darkness.
The grassy fields are probably scorched out of existence by now and I can see the banyan trees being devoured by the flames.
Can you see the temple? It must be blackened with soot by now.
Beautiful, isn’t it – the fire and the night?
It’s been seven years since I fell down into the forest. Finally, I can return back home.
By the way, did I mention?
My name is Precious.
THE END

Wow.
This is quite interesting. I'm guessing that it's a teenage girl from a broken home who's been driven to insanity? It caught my attention really well.
A couple of things, though--you might want to remove the few things from "real life" such as *stares into space*--the points where you leave her words and look at her from another perspective. It takes away from the depth, I think. Makes it more "real." Which I'm not sure you want. And who exactly was the guy with the long black hair?
Anyway. It's quite interesting. Really creepy about how her father liked young teenage girls. Ugh. But it was good for the story, so yeah. Champion, mah friend.

So this was pretty good. The atmosphere was clearly distinguishable against the background din of other story elements, and there was a definite feeling to the prose here. The single-line style worked pretty well in your favour, although there were a few flaws with it, of which we'll talk about in a moment. I particularly liked the descriptions of the temple, and the overall detached tone at work here. Quite a fresh piece, and original in how you went about writing it (although not so much in what it was trying to do). Now, let's see if we can narrow down some criticisms for this.



The point at which I thought "Hey, this doesn't look like the usual half-cooked prose, I'm going to keep reading this" was when it was revealed that the main character's mother was shot by her father. That made me pause in between the one-line sentences and reflect on that truth and imagine that moment. It was nice and subtle. However, immediately after that, the story tumbles right down into melodramatic. "My life was spared only because my father liked young girls in bed. I had just turned fourteen then." OH NO OMAGAWD THIS PERSON HAS THE WORST LIFE EVAR v_v. Boo hoo, wah wah, my mother was a nutcase and my dad shot her and I'm forever scarred and afraid of the dark and I'm just a basketcase of problems. That's the impression your story started making on me after that crucial moment. I'm pretty sure that a murderer father is enough to seriously screw up a person for the rest of their life. Okay, her father raped her too, I guess I can roll with that. But you just go on and on about how awful her life is to the extent that it almost seemed comical after a point. The detached tone which you adopt for this story doesn't work well with such a lack of subtlety as contained within it.

Your style experimentation with the whole one sentence per line thing worked fabulously, but it did get kind of really confusing at a few places. I couldn't really identify who was doing what at some points. After sinking into this sort of style, you should keep the narrative contained to one person, and none of that *italicized text in asterisks* business that somehow leaked into the narrative. If you want to describe an action, do it from her point of view, not a third-person one. If you don't keep your POV static, the story turns into an exercise in tapping on the fourth wall, and not in a quirky good way.

Finally, did this piece have a deeper thought to it? Why did this girl suddenly find herself beautiful? Why did the boy leave this gift for her? We see no development between the two, nor any real relationship between them, either. What is the mirror supposed to symbolize? Forgiveness? Really, the entire story can be taken in a thousand ways. That's both the beauty and the scourge of such abstract experimental works. If you wanted me to realize something profound after finishing it, I'll have to disappoint. If you wanted me to come away from the story in deep meditation on what it actually meant, here you've also failed, because there really didn't seem to be anything to think about. You packed too much for me to actually focus on anything and form coherent thoughts about what the story's elements come together to mean.

Overall, I didn't mind this. It isn't drivel, but it also doesn't do enough for me to push that "like" button. However, it does seem like there's lots of talent behind this piece, and so I'll be keeping an eye out for your works around YWS. Best of luck.

Your paintbrush,
cC

Wow, I can hardly put into words the way i feel about this story... Well maybe i can, it was interesting. Yes! Very, very, interesting... I struggled to get the gist of the story, but that's just me.
I would give it a 3/5 overall
Keep Writing!!!

Sincerely,
Lesely