z

Young Writers Society



(Title working in Progress)-13+ for language

by Tara


Ok, this isn't finished, it's just a tiny bit of what I'm working to be a novel. I havn't had time to edit it myself. I don't mind, but rather appreciate comments of harsh nature. Feel free to pick it apart and comment on anything that's wrong with it! Thanx!

Turn the music back on, it’s too quiet.

(Shhh, Andrew, I’m busy.)

Put on the Dire Straits, I like them.

(Not now, I’m writing. I can’t think with the music on.)

Don’t try and give me that. I’ve seen you listening to music while your writing. Just

Turn it on low, you’ll barely notice it.

(Urgh! Fine, if you promise to be quiet for a few minutes to let me concentrate.)

Thank you.

As a child, I had a lot of imaginary friends. Not because I never had any real friends, I had plenty, but because I could go somewhere with my imaginary friends I couldn’t go with the real ones. This place was inside my mind. I could close my eyes and picture myself in the wondrous land I had named Shiyah. Here it was always night, because I loved the stars. The forests were thick and green, and were home to hundreds of dazzling waterfalls. The water from these splashed into deep black pools, letting off a dazzling spray of white water that needed no light to reflect glorious rainbows. If one were to dive deep enough into one of these pools, they would find a long tunnel. This tunnel was about 200 feet in length. One would not need to worry about breathing, because in this world water was as breathable as air, assuming you were among the creatures living there who breathed at all! This tunnel would finally open up into an enormous cave. All the waterfalls in Shiyah led to this cave. It was lit only by the fireflies who lived there, but since there were so many of these, dancing above in little swirls of shimmering yellow light, seeing was not a problem. All the creatures of Shiyah would come here on nights when the moon was full to tell tales and sing songs from years long past, and dance to the swift fiddle music that’s rhythmic tempo was absolutely irresistible to feet from all the creatures in Shiah. I loved to sit in the nooks in the cave walls clapping my hands to the beat of these songs. If I close my eyes I can still hear the music and see faces of all those around me. After all this was over we would all gather around in a circle for the evening finale. Murchock, the most beloved and oldest of all Shiyah’s storytellers, would sit in the middle of the circle and hit a small tan drum with an equally sized black stick several times. According to Murchock, the air was full of stories it had picked up through the ages. By sounding his drum in the appropriate fashion called all of these stories to him. He would choose one each night, and allow the others to go free, back to the places from whence they had come.

Yes, Shiah was a truly marvelous place. Thinking back on all the wonderful times I had there it’s hard to imagine any sensible reason that could explain why I stopped visiting it. I suppose I became to caught up in other matters that seemed so much more important at the time, that when I finally had time again to visit my little wonderland, I couldn’t remember how. I suppose it’s just something that happens to people. That childish wonder is lost with age, and places like Shiah are replaced by places such as California and Texas. Imaginary friends are replaced by those that are as real to others as they are to you. I guess that time came for me at an early age, but it could be argued that any age is too early to loose the imaginations we had as children.

There was I time when I thought that I would never stop ‘playing pretend.’But that was a long time ago, back when I still referred to myself as ‘Bekah’, back before the voices started. It must have been sometime in April of 2001 when I first heard a voice that wasn’t mine inside my head. But I’ll go back a little further, February would be a good place to start, since that was the first time I had the dream.

I can’t remember the exact date, I should have written it down somewhere when the memory was still fresh in my mind, but it must have been earlier in the month, because the Calrsons still had that banner strung across the front of their house reading “Happy New Year!” in bulgy multicolored letters. It was replaced around Valentines day by a row of red and pink hearts that bled down onto the windows, and a lacey banner reading “Be Mine,” in delicate cursive. Our own single red paper doily heart paled in comparison. Our family never was much for decorating.

Skip this song, I don’t like it.

(The music was your idea. Make up you mind.)

Puh-leeze? I promise I’ll leave you alone after that.

(That’s what you said ten minutes ago!)

I mean it this time! Cross my heart. I’ll stop--

(Oi, fine. There, ya happy?)

Ecstatic, thank’s a bundle.

(Good, now if you don’t mind, shhhh!)

Sorry. I’ll be quiet.

That morning had been unusually warm, considering the cold spell that had swept through southern Nevada, chasing any venturing animals back into their winter dens, including most of the folks living in Arnbourg, our small town at the foot of the Rockies. I was out walking when I noticed the change. I didn’t need to hug my jacket quite so tight around me, and the wind allowed me to look straight ahead instead of bowing my head so that it almost touched my chest to keep the cold air out of my face.

Lila, the neighbor’s dog, also seemed to have noticed the change. She was out in the yard instead of confined to her doghouse like she had been for most of January.

I remember waving to Chance Taylor, who was bending over to tie his shoe across the street. He was wearing an orange pullover that had the words ‘Kool Kat’ printed in black letters across the front. It’s funny how I can remember small details like that, but I can’t even seem to recall the name of the person who started all of this. I had never seen his face until that day, but after that he seemed to show up everywhere. I’m not sure quite what he did or how he did it, but the important thing was that he did. He didn’t tell me it was he who put that dream in my head. In fact, I’m not quite sure he even knew it himself. For awhile I thought it was something I dreamt up on my own, but now I know. I know because they told me.

I’m not quite sure if it was planned, or sheer coincidence that I met him. I wish I could remember his

Ben? It was something with a ‘B’, wasn’t it?

(No, it was longer than Ben, and I think it started with a ‘G’.)

name. But his face was unforgettable. This may sound funny, because if you were to look at him with your own eyes, you would see probably the most ordinary face for a boy of his age.

Gerald? Gregory? Gary?

I can’t say that in full confidence, because I’m really not quite sure how old he was. He was young, though. Very young. At least six, but not quite nine yet. He had light brown hair, and rather pale skin. His eyes were icy blue, but there was nothing cold about that ice.

I had stopped to sit on one of the swings in the city park. The chain on the swing I chose creaked badly, and I was glad I had my portable cd player to drown out the sound. That was where I met him. On that swing set. They took it out last year when a kid fell off one of the swings and broke his arm. He seemed to appear from nowhere, for I certainly didn’t see him there when I sat down, and I don’t remember him coming up and sitting down, but I supposed he had just been so quiet, and I so deep in thought, to even notice him. However he got there, it doesn’t change how startled I was when he spoke to me.

“Could you give me a push, please?”

I nearly jumped off the swing at the sound of his voice, small and meek as it was. I looked down to see a small face staring up at me. Whisps of light blonde hair streaked across his face, covering half of one of his bright blue blue eyes and resting on his rosey cheeks. He had one tooth missing from his slightly crooked smile, the top front one, on the left.

The same one I first lost, I thought.

I was never really one to choose words very well, and just let the first ones hat came to my lips slip right out.

“Do you like to go up high?”

If I had been speaking to someone ten, even five years older, I may have gotten a funny look, but this appeared not to be an odd question to start a conversation with to a child who looked as if he was only a year into Elementary school.

“Yes!” He said happily, extending the ‘s’ a little as a cartoon snake would. Again he showed that gap in his front teeth where one had gone missing. He might have gotten a quarter for that tooth, or maybe even a dollar. His parent’s explanation would be that a creature called the ‘toothfairy’ had taken it, and left him the money in return for it. One day he might find the box where his parents kept those teeth, while trying to reach something on the top shelf of a cabinet or bookcase. In that one simple moment, that childlike wonder would be diminished.

That’s not nesseccarily true, I thought, just because that’s what happened to you…

These thoughts were shaken by the little boy’s squirming on the swing. They would show up again, not as an important matter, thought. Just as a thought that one’s mind might find while walking down an empty street on a cold day, or while trying out that new shapoo in the shower. Not that it mattered, but small things can seem important when there’s nothing else to think about.

I held the chains of the swing in my hands, and pulled them towards me, talking a few steps back. I let them go and gave his back a small push. When he came back to me, I pushed him a little harder.

“What’s your name?” I asked him as I gave him another push.

“________,” he answered absently, “what’s yours?”

“Bekah,” I smiled, knowing very well he couldn’t see me smiling, but somehow I think he felt it.

“I collected bugs with my dad today,” he said. For young children, things like collecting bugs with their fathers can be a big deal. I suppose when you think about it it is. I don’t know any people my age who still collect insects with their parents. Sometimes I think it’d be nice if I did.

“Wow, cool,” I replied, sounding far too much like my great Aunt Marjorie did when she talked to me as a baby.

What do you mean? She still talks to you like that.

(Andy, I thought you said you’d be quiet. Now just listen to the music while I type.)

The music stopped, the CD is over. It has been for about ten minutes.

(Has it? I guess I didn’t notice…)


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Wed Mar 02, 2005 10:33 pm
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Tara says...



Thanx everyone, I really appreciate your critiques, especially Mesh. I couldn't ask for better editors!




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Mon Feb 28, 2005 5:27 am
Meshugenah wrote a review...



mkay, Tara, in general: the part describing Shiyah (or is it Shiah? typo, perhaps?) In the same section, you used "!". I generally wouldn't use those unless it in dialogue, but that's just me.

One thing I tend not to like are definate dates, specifically years. months and days are ok, but years seem to put limitations (in a sense) on things.

I like how you have the conversations going on while you're telling the story, but the first time it seems choppy.

Bekah.. love that name :wink:

I can see how this can be a short story, or a novel, so just go for it!




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Mon Feb 28, 2005 3:07 am
Sam wrote a review...



I thought this was really good, however, you kinda lose me at the beginning. You go on and on about Shiyah, and after a while it's kind of...*snore* But then you say something about 'the voices' and you're just...Ohh, I want to read more! You need a couple more of those hooks in the first couple paragraphs or you're going to lose your readers before the book even really starts. And, as you can guess, that's not good.

I really liked this piece, and it was a good first impression since I've never really read any of your stuff before. :D




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Wed Feb 23, 2005 4:03 pm
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Emma says...



Im sure I read that one! >.<

Anyway, it is very good! And thats all.... Wow, I need to work on my comments....




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Wed Feb 09, 2005 6:35 am
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Tara says...



Yeah, this is just the beggining...the very beggining in the first chapter.




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Thu Feb 03, 2005 6:59 am
Incandescence says...



I like this somewhat as a short story. I don't see how it can be a novel though.





You can't blame the writer for what the characters say.
— Truman Capote