Writing Exercise: the Story Tree

[StillStunned]

And now for something completely different...*

In this writing exercise, you're all invited to contribute to a story, a few paragraphs at a time. Move the story forward in whatever direction you want to take it, and whatever style.

Don't worry about someone else posting just as you are: this just means that the story has branched. Don't like where it's going? Just go back to the last snippet that you liked and create a new branch from there. Same if a branch is heading towards a dead end: go back and branch off with something fresh.

The rules are simple. Quote the snippet that you're following, and number your snippet sequentially. The quoting is important so that everyone can see which branch you're following. The numbers aren't necessary, but it might be interesting to see which branches grow the longest.

Don't reply to your own snippets. Write them so that another poster can take your storyline forward. If no-one does, let the dead branches die.

And of course the usual rules apply: nothing that wouldn't get through Lit's publishing process, so no underage stuff, no rape, no snuff, no bestiality. Try to keep your snippets to about 300 words. We've often pushed the limits with that particular rule, but for this exercise it would be best to enforce it. Shorter snippets are also more likely to encourage others to continue your branch.

* Yes, I know the skit. Story snippet no. 1 isn't about a larch.

 

[StillStunned]

1.

Our story begins, perhaps appropriately, with a tree. A great chestnut standing proud on a hill, visible for miles around. In the spring its buds shone green in the fresh sunlight, and in summer its flowers rose like candles from broad leaves. In the winter, stark and shorn, it stood out black against the grey skies.

A mighty tree it was, with memory reaching back in time like its roots reached into the earth below. It had suffered storms and weathered winds. It had felt the bite of ice and the warmth of sunshine. Birds and animals had lived their lives in its shelter, and travellers had followed its landmark on their journeys.

Broadsheets and proclamations had been nailed onto its tough hide. Lovers had made pledges beneath its bows, and more than one had later stood there, lost and alone. Children had climbed in boughs where more than once the hangman’s rope had swung.

 

[onehitwanda]

1.

Our story begins, perhaps appropriately, with a tree. A great chestnut standing proud on a hill, visible for miles around. In the spring its buds shone green in the fresh sunlight, and in summer its flowers rose like candles from broad leaves. In the winter, stark and shorn, it stood out black against the grey skies.

A mighty tree it was, with memory reaching back in time like its roots reached into the earth below. It had suffered storms and weathered winds. It had felt the bite of ice and the warmth of sunshine. Birds and animals had lived their lives in its shelter, and travellers had followed its landmark on their journeys.

Broadsheets and proclamations had been nailed onto its tough hide. Lovers had made pledges beneath its bows, and more than one had later stood there, lost and alone. Children had climbed in boughs where more than once the hangman’s rope had swung.

2.

But then - one dark and stormy night - two drunk bastards cut it down.

 

[Erozetta]

2.

But then - one dark and stormy night - two drunk bastards cut it down.

3.

They were laughing with each harsh thwack of metal to wood.

A torch stuck in the ground nearby cast a soft light, though it threatened to go out as the rain fell through the canopy. The tree wept red sap from each harsh wound. It poured from deeper gashes, and still they chopped into it. When finally it fell, the sap had risen to ankle deep as it spread, as though it came not from the tree but from the earth itself.

Drunk as they were, both men understood quickly that they'd made a mistake. Their feet wouldn't move no matter how hard they tried.

The first reached down to untie his shoes, to step out and perhaps leap over to a nearby rock. And he managed the first alright, but the second knot was stuck tight. He tugged and jerked until his hand slipped from the laces and landed in the sticky red sap.

All at once, the emotions of a long life cut short raged through him. He wept and laughed and swiped in anger at nothing, causing his balance to shift and his other hand to land in the sap.

He looked at his drunk friend. Fear had found its way onto his face among the myriad of ever-shifting emotions he displayed. His friend stilled in the dark, rain pelting his skin.

Thunder crashed and lightning flashed nearby as the torch finally flickered its last bit of strength and sputtered out.

 

[Lifestyle66]

"Broadsheets and proclamations had been nailed onto its tough hide. Lovers had made pledges beneath its bows, and more than one had later stood there, lost and alone. Children had climbed in boughs where more than once the hangman’s rope had swung."
...

1.5

The ropes left their marks unseen by the unaided eye, stains on the bark which decades and even centuries later rubbed off on the innocent. A child grasping a particular spot on a limb to climb higher might fall into a life of sadistic depravity. Or a couple standing below the boughs during a light rain might feel a drop of fear for their pending doom.

There were many happy family picnics in the shade of that tree, so there was never any connection between later misfortune and the tree. It was merely the occasional happenstance which brought together the wood with a victim. Grasping the limb a few inches closer or away from the tree trunk might spare a child a life of trouble. Or a raindrop passing over a spot might miss the couple below.

But woe be to those who touched or were touched by that spot on the branch which held the hangman’s noose.

 

[joy_of_cooking]

3.

They were laughing with each harsh thwack of metal to wood.

A torch stuck in the ground nearby cast a soft light, though it threatened to go out as the rain fell through the canopy. The tree wept red sap from each harsh wound. It poured from deeper gashes, and still they chopped into it. When finally it fell, the sap had risen to ankle deep as it spread, as though it came not from the tree but from the earth itself.

Drunk as they were, both men understood quickly that they'd made a mistake. Their feet wouldn't move no matter how hard they tried.

The first reached down to untie his shoes, to step out and perhaps leap over to a nearby rock. And he managed the first alright, but the second knot was stuck tight. He tugged and jerked until his hand slipped from the laces and landed in the sticky red sap.

All at once, the emotions of a long life cut short raged through him. He wept and laughed and swiped in anger at nothing, causing his balance to shift and his other hand to land in the sap.

He looked at his drunk friend. Fear had found its way onto his face among the myriad of ever-shifting emotions he displayed. His friend stilled in the dark, rain pelting his skin.

Thunder crashed and lightning flashed nearby as the torch finally flickered its last bit of strength and sputtered out.

4.

"Fuck," the groundskeeper said. The tree has fallen in the night. But how? There has been wind, yes, but not enough to uproot a healthy chestnut. Had he missed some rot? The thought beggared belief. He hurried up the hill to investigate.

As he drew closer, the details became clear. The truncated stump, the discarded torch, soon the axes.

"Fuck!" he cried. How could anyone do such a thing?

But the worst was yet to come: two dead men, not a mark on them, sprawled on the ground behind the massive trunk of the tree they had felled.

"Fuck," he muttered, backing away. This was above his pay grade.

 

[yowser]

2.

But then - one dark and stormy night - two drunk bastards cut it down.

The townspeople assembled the next day, the fallen tree elicited sobs and stories from the crowd.

Elisa Witherby remembered her first kiss under its boughs. Kenneth Highstreet told stories about climbing as far as he could go, higher each year as he grew older.

Ester Mumbly gasped as she looked at the trunk. 'Look. a heart carved on it. Am I reading it right? SF and TR? That couldn't be Slingsby Frankle and Teresa Rumpstock now? Oh the troubles those two caused!'

 

[SamanthaBehgs]

3.

They were laughing with each harsh thwack of metal to wood.

A torch stuck in the ground nearby cast a soft light, though it threatened to go out as the rain fell through the canopy. The tree wept red sap from each harsh wound. It poured from deeper gashes, and still they chopped into it. When finally it fell, the sap had risen to ankle deep as it spread, as though it came not from the tree but from the earth itself.

Drunk as they were, both men understood quickly that they'd made a mistake. Their feet wouldn't move no matter how hard they tried.

The first reached down to untie his shoes, to step out and perhaps leap over to a nearby rock. And he managed the first alright, but the second knot was stuck tight. He tugged and jerked until his hand slipped from the laces and landed in the sticky red sap.

All at once, the emotions of a long life cut short raged through him. He wept and laughed and swiped in anger at nothing, causing his balance to shift and his other hand to land in the sap.

He looked at his drunk friend. Fear had found its way onto his face among the myriad of ever-shifting emotions he displayed. His friend stilled in the dark, rain pelting his skin.

Thunder crashed and lightning flashed nearby as the torch finally flickered its last bit of strength and sputtered out.

4.5 (the 0.5 because the branch by @Lifestyle66 wove its way in here)

Charles remembered the times he played with his friend, climbing the tree and jumping through the boughs. And he rememebred the day he fell from the the highest branch, scraping himself on the way down. It was then he had vowed to have the tree's life, though his friend had cautioned him against such things. Now he found himself stuck, both hands in the sap and ass in the air, the pose his parents had taught him if ever he were caught in a field in a lightening storm. How fitting.

Peter looked at Charles, fear leaving him frozen, unable to help. The sap had started to creep up Charles's arms and legs, as if to consume him.

"Bugger this for a lark!" He shouted as he removed his feet from his shoes, thankful he had purchased those slip ons just last week. This vendetta wasn't his - he loved this tree. Why had he gone through with this?

He hopped on one foot, his sock sticking in the sap as he switched to the other, and made his way just barely to the edge of the sap. But he couldn't bring himself to leave. Not yet. Not like this.

Peter knelt at the edge of the sap, head bowed and tears streaking his face. "I'm sorry," he wept, "I'm so sorry to have done this. We should never have hurt you, great tree."

Rising, he continued his retreat. "You deserved better," he whispered to the chestnut he had pocketed as they butchered the ancient sentinal. "I'll give you beter," he vowed.

 

[alohadave]

1.

Our story begins, perhaps appropriately, with a tree. A great chestnut standing proud on a hill, visible for miles around. In the spring its buds shone green in the fresh sunlight, and in summer its flowers rose like candles from broad leaves. In the winter, stark and shorn, it stood out black against the grey skies.

A mighty tree it was, with memory reaching back in time like its roots reached into the earth below. It had suffered storms and weathered winds. It had felt the bite of ice and the warmth of sunshine. Birds and animals had lived their lives in its shelter, and travellers had followed its landmark on their journeys.

Broadsheets and proclamations had been nailed onto its tough hide. Lovers had made pledges beneath its bows, and more than one had later stood there, lost and alone. Children had climbed in boughs where more than once the hangman’s rope had swung.

2.

The woman ran her hand along rough and scarred bark. The cold winter sun cast spindly shadows through the branch's that mutated that shape with speckles that caught bits of dull nail in its gaze.

One lone poster hung limply from its nail. Faded and crinkled from years of exposure to sun and rain and snow, she could just make out the message.

"Assistant needed, low pay, possible danger."

She smiled, remembering how young and stupid and naive she had been when she tore off one of the tabs with his number on it.

 

[StillStunned]

2.

The woman ran her hand along rough and scarred bark. The cold winter sun cast spindly shadows through the branch's that mutated that shape with speckles that caught bits of dull nail in its gaze.

One lone poster hung limply from its nail. Faded and crinkled from years of exposure to sun and rain and snow, she could just make out the message.

"Assistant needed, low pay, possible danger."

She smiled, remembering how young and stupid and naive she had been when she tore off one of the tabs with his number on it.

3.

Well, youth was a quality that always managed to slip away with time, but she'd lost her naivete very quickly too. Her first interview with Lord Black - she doubted very much that was his real name, and doubted his title even more - had left her curious, and excited. More excited that she remembered being about anything.

"A journey into strange lands," he'd said, and for once he hadn't lied. The lands he'd taken her to were strange beyond reckoning, unknown to the world's atlases and weathermen.

The possible danger had been a lie, though. Not the danger, perhaps, but the "possible" qualifier. In those strange lands, danger lurked in every shadow, and the naïve either wisened up or fell. Morina West - young and naïve - had grown up and grown wise in a hard school. She survived.