Philosophy of Writing – 14.2 – A Sample (Contd.)

Existing (carried over from previous post)
There was a tree, in our woods, that would send you to sleep. We learnt to cultivate it – my mother’s family – to crossbreed it with oaks so the trunks grow strong and knotted. The original we cut down decades ago. A mimeograph of it hangs in the front hall; my grandfather is the boy inside. His back faces the camera and his shoulders are slumped – he dreams. Eventuallyhe hung a sign from his neck that said “Don’t Move Me”; when his dreams got too lovely. The tree grew tendrils around him; we couldn’t move him; when he died and the tree started drinking nutrients from him we cut it down.

I never slept in our trees. I like the sort of dreams that haunt my shadows and make me grateful to be awake in the sunshine.

The trees grow black fruit – good for making pies. If you eat it raw you spit out seeds like caviar. The juice is purple and stains your teeth. That night you’ll dream of rot and sharp angles, abandoned things, the growth of mold on concepts.

We’ll sell you a basket of wood for a buck but don’t burn it indoors – use it for carpentry. It makes lovely, dozy tool sheds and doghouses, where the sun waltzes in through the window glass and settles sleepily on the floor. We don’t like storing it because if there’s ever a spark we’ll burn to death in our sleep.

~~~

III. – one month later
There was a tree, in our woods, that would send you to sleep. We learnt to cultivate it – my mother’s family – to crossbreed it with oaks so the trunks grow strong and knotted. The original we cut down decades ago. A mimeograph of it hangs in the front hall; my grandfather is the boy inside. His back faces the camera and his shoulders are slumped – he dreams. Eventually he hung a sign from his neck that said “Don’t Move Me” when his dreams got too lovely. The tree grew tendrils around him; we couldn’t move him; when he died and the tree started drinking nutrients from him we cut it down.

I never slept in our trees. I like the sort of dreams that haunt my shadows and make me grateful to be awake in the sunshine.

The trees grow black fruit – good for making pies. If you eat it raw you spit out seeds like caviar. The juice is purple and stains your teeth. That night you’ll dream of rot and sharp angles, abandoned things, the growth of mold on concepts.

We’ll sell you a basket of wood for a buck but don’t burn it indoors – use it for carpentry. It makes lovely, dozy tool sheds and doghouses, where the sun waltzes in through the window glass and settles sleepily on the floor. We don’t like storing it because if there’s ever a spark we’ll burn to death in our sleep.

I don’t know qho who found the r tree The trees’ drink slak thirst is never slaked. They m don’t grow unless the soil is black and dripping drips with cold rainwater when you hold it n open fingers You mus We must grow them in soft black soil that drips cold rainwater down your fingers when you hold it, or risk a weak crop. ; I grew up in a valley, where between two low-lying weather fronts, where the water sam came down in drops like the size of marbles, but  and the consistency of feather-down. Oaks d 

~~~

I like this beginning. I’ll probably devote some time to it and see where it goes. If I come up with a definite plot at a later date I’ll make further posts.