Short, short beginning to a much longer story that I started today. I have a full plot worked out, just posting this because I want some responses, because I'm like that.
-
Strange Place
-
Francis was quite possibly the most emasculate name a parent could name their child, and thusly, Francis was named. He was born to two parents of opposite gender on a farm who’s chief export was many different types of cow dung that were used to fertilize other, more useful farms. Francis grew up playing and virtually living in a mire of ****, never really knowing of the outside world or what it could hold for him.
Francis was home schooled, sitting on a rickety stool wearing a dunce cap every day to the amusement of his parents. His mother (also named Francis) would sit behind a large, wooden desk with an Applebee’s speller from over sixty years past open on the desk, quizzing Francis on the stories that lay within. Having never learned to read, and not paying much attention (for the stool faced the window, and the window faced the world) he was often smacked on the wrist with a ruler, much to his dismay.
Collectively, Francis was more intelligent than both of his parents by the time he was ready to leave the farm. His father (also named Francis) asked him to stay and help run the farm, but Francis couldn’t sit still any longer.
The first thing he did, as he left, was go to the tree that was atop the hill, sketched onto the horizon lazily in the summer haze that he had watched so many days from rickety stool inside the small farmhouse.
The young, gangly man made his way up the gentle slope, a silhouette against the setting sun. His brown hair fell loosely all around his head, save for the front where the dunce-cap would cover, where no hair ever grew. His bangs swept to the side, leaving the circular mark of the cap against his forehead. His brown eyes glazed over as he stared at the sun behind the tree, never learning not to, until his eyes brimmed over with tears.
The tree, Francis found out, outside of being a symbol for freedom, was quite boring. He spent perhaps ten minutes standing around, picking at the bark, wondering why he had chosen this to be the first locale out of all the locales for him to visit. An exciting township was just around the bend, filled with people that led exciting lives without dunce-caps.
So Francis set out, once again, from the tree. He was no more than five steps down the hill, when he was snagged back up by one of the tree’s taught branches. It lifted him slowly, and set him in the very top branches, securely.
“Now see here, tree, why did you pick me up?”
“Because, Francis, you can’t go quite yet.”
“And why, tree, can I not go yet?”
“Because, Francis, I love you!”
Francis was taken aback. He had never loved anything before, but he was sure that he was supposed to love a woman, not a tree. Not even a tree that kind of sounded like a woman.
“What? Why do you love me?”
“Because you love me too!”
“See here, tree, I would know if I loved you, and I know that I do not, in fact, love you. So banish the silly notion of love immediately and let me go!”
“Francis, I cannot let you go. All the sad years I spent, watching you in the window wearing the silly cap, and all the years you spent watching me... I thought we had a connection!”
“We don’t have any kind of connection! Do you hear me? No connection. Just let me go; I want to get to town before night-fall!”
“There’s an old saying, Francis, ‘If you love someone, you must never, ever, ever let them go.”
“I’m almost positive that’s not the way the saying goes!”
“I’m older.”
“I’m not into older women,” Francis quickly retorted, climbing down a few branches.
“I’m young compared to most other trees...”
“I’m not into trees!” Francis dropped the last twenty feet to the ground, landing awkwardly, rolling his ankle. He cried out in pain as the intense feeling of fire spread up his leg.
“Are you alright, Francis?”
“Oh- fine,” he gasped, rolling away from a solitary branch that swept down to pick him up again. Had he been caught and put back into the tree, he would not have been able to get down again. He rolled, once, to avoid the branch, and many, many more times down the gradual slope, avoiding the sprays and spritzes of dirt that shot into the air as the tree’s many, many roots tried to catch Francis and pull him back up.
When he hit the base of the hill, he rolled three yards and watched the weakened structure of the tree, with so many exposed roots, collapse on the hill. It fell onto its side, crying out.
Francis rose to one foot, steadying himself with a branch he had picked up from the tree, and hobbled along the dirt path, listening to the tree cry.
“What a weeping willow,” he said under his breath, oblivious to the pun.
-
Strange Place
-
Francis was quite possibly the most emasculate name a parent could name their child, and thusly, Francis was named. He was born to two parents of opposite gender on a farm who’s chief export was many different types of cow dung that were used to fertilize other, more useful farms. Francis grew up playing and virtually living in a mire of ****, never really knowing of the outside world or what it could hold for him.
Francis was home schooled, sitting on a rickety stool wearing a dunce cap every day to the amusement of his parents. His mother (also named Francis) would sit behind a large, wooden desk with an Applebee’s speller from over sixty years past open on the desk, quizzing Francis on the stories that lay within. Having never learned to read, and not paying much attention (for the stool faced the window, and the window faced the world) he was often smacked on the wrist with a ruler, much to his dismay.
Collectively, Francis was more intelligent than both of his parents by the time he was ready to leave the farm. His father (also named Francis) asked him to stay and help run the farm, but Francis couldn’t sit still any longer.
The first thing he did, as he left, was go to the tree that was atop the hill, sketched onto the horizon lazily in the summer haze that he had watched so many days from rickety stool inside the small farmhouse.
The young, gangly man made his way up the gentle slope, a silhouette against the setting sun. His brown hair fell loosely all around his head, save for the front where the dunce-cap would cover, where no hair ever grew. His bangs swept to the side, leaving the circular mark of the cap against his forehead. His brown eyes glazed over as he stared at the sun behind the tree, never learning not to, until his eyes brimmed over with tears.
The tree, Francis found out, outside of being a symbol for freedom, was quite boring. He spent perhaps ten minutes standing around, picking at the bark, wondering why he had chosen this to be the first locale out of all the locales for him to visit. An exciting township was just around the bend, filled with people that led exciting lives without dunce-caps.
So Francis set out, once again, from the tree. He was no more than five steps down the hill, when he was snagged back up by one of the tree’s taught branches. It lifted him slowly, and set him in the very top branches, securely.
“Now see here, tree, why did you pick me up?”
“Because, Francis, you can’t go quite yet.”
“And why, tree, can I not go yet?”
“Because, Francis, I love you!”
Francis was taken aback. He had never loved anything before, but he was sure that he was supposed to love a woman, not a tree. Not even a tree that kind of sounded like a woman.
“What? Why do you love me?”
“Because you love me too!”
“See here, tree, I would know if I loved you, and I know that I do not, in fact, love you. So banish the silly notion of love immediately and let me go!”
“Francis, I cannot let you go. All the sad years I spent, watching you in the window wearing the silly cap, and all the years you spent watching me... I thought we had a connection!”
“We don’t have any kind of connection! Do you hear me? No connection. Just let me go; I want to get to town before night-fall!”
“There’s an old saying, Francis, ‘If you love someone, you must never, ever, ever let them go.”
“I’m almost positive that’s not the way the saying goes!”
“I’m older.”
“I’m not into older women,” Francis quickly retorted, climbing down a few branches.
“I’m young compared to most other trees...”
“I’m not into trees!” Francis dropped the last twenty feet to the ground, landing awkwardly, rolling his ankle. He cried out in pain as the intense feeling of fire spread up his leg.
“Are you alright, Francis?”
“Oh- fine,” he gasped, rolling away from a solitary branch that swept down to pick him up again. Had he been caught and put back into the tree, he would not have been able to get down again. He rolled, once, to avoid the branch, and many, many more times down the gradual slope, avoiding the sprays and spritzes of dirt that shot into the air as the tree’s many, many roots tried to catch Francis and pull him back up.
When he hit the base of the hill, he rolled three yards and watched the weakened structure of the tree, with so many exposed roots, collapse on the hill. It fell onto its side, crying out.
Francis rose to one foot, steadying himself with a branch he had picked up from the tree, and hobbled along the dirt path, listening to the tree cry.
“What a weeping willow,” he said under his breath, oblivious to the pun.
Comment