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A Boy's Island
Cynicus
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
I cooked this up a few days ago, mostly as practice for setting a scene. This one is more of a story though.
Thanks in advance for reading and commenting.
Thanks in advance for reading and commenting.
The boy lived on the island. The sun shone often there, though it shone only in the sky and not in the boy's heart or mind. The island was overgrown with brambles, which bore large, bright red berries in the last month of summer. The only thing else that grew there were the meagre crops of corn and tomatoes that the boy and his father tended. There were also three cows and half a dozen sheep, which were all confined to the part of the island that the boy's father had cleared of brambles.
The boy had no name, his father had never seen fit to give him one since there was no one else on the island. Similarly, the boy knew his father only as 'father'.
The island was surrounded on all sides by the endless blue expanse of the sky, it floated forlornly at the edge of a storm that never abated, accompanied by its innumerable, interminable siblings.
The storm was the very reason that they were there. The father was from a land far away, that the boy knew was called Onaeus from the disjointed rambling of his father.
His father had been sent by learned men to live there with his wife for five years. He would write about the things he saw at the edge of the storm, draw them if possible, and after five years they would come for them and take them back. It had been twelve years, and the boy's mother had died in childbirth. They lived in a squat hut, thatched with a thin blanket of dried, woven grass weighted down with dirt. It had been built by the father with help from the sailors of the ship that had put them down on the island, using wooden beams and suchlike that had been carried there in the skyship.
The boy was watering the tomatoes when he saw the dark clouds approach. If the boy had ever seen a body of water larger than the shallow pool that they drew their drinking and watering water from, he would have likened the front of clouds that now approached to a massive wave that spanned from horizon to horizon. He called for his father, as he had been instructed to do in these cases. He could tell, though, that this wasn't just any storm.
Storms were a regular occurrence at the island, and the father still dutifully recorded each and every one of them. They were never this big though. It was almost as if the storm, the really big one at the center of it all, was coming for them. Or maybe they were going towards it.
The father came out of the house, tottering on his feet and paper in hand. He had received a prodigious stack of paper when he had been put on the island twelve years ago, but there was precious little left of that now. The boy feared what would happen when it ran out. His father had taken the brewing a sour and repugnant rotgut from the berries that grew on the island, and he was drunk almost all of the time. The boy did not know this, he did not know what being drunk was and did not know the man his father had been.
The boy fled inside, he had been outside in lesser storms enough to know that taking shelter was a wise course of action now. His father had lost his wits and wisdom long ago, and stayed outside with a piece of charcoal and some paper. The paper was already being blown away by the oncoming wind, but the father paid no heed. He stared at the storm with a mad and wild relish. The boy cowered at the house's single window, watching his father as he knelt down. There was a stone, a flat stone that his father always used to draw on. The boy wasn't allowed to stand on the stone ever, but his father had never explained exactly why. His father explained very little of what he bid and forbid.
Hailstones, big ones as large as the boy's clenched fist, started falling on the grass and the roof and the father. He did not wince, and he did not take his eyes off of the storm. He scribbled and wrote, sketched and drew. The boy had stolen glances at his father's drawings a few time. They were the most beautiful things he had ever seen.
The father was bleeding from his balding scalp when the hailstones abated. The wind picked up, and started pulling on the paper. This time he did respond, desperately and frantically grabbing at paper as it flew by, and letting go of what he already held to catch what was still in the air. Most of it was lost, and the father wept. The boy wept with him.
The wind got worse and worse, and it started raining as well. The boy looked at the sky, and it was as if the clouds themselves were falling downward and pouncing on the island like some kind of massive predator. The father had stopped trying to write or draw, and was now on the ground.
His clothes rippled and billowed, and then ripped, as the wind grabbed and tore at him.
The boy watched as his father was slowly pushed back, and out of sight. He dragged his finger nails through the rocky soil, ploughing it as he went. After his father had disappeared from view, bot boy went away from the window and hid under the table. He hummed to himself to drown out the sound of the wind and the rain. Sometimes he told himself stories, and during a lull in the wind he boldly ventured out to retrieve the wooden toy soldier had cut for him from some of the wood that had been left over from the construction of the house. It was old and worn, it had cracks here and there, and the gun was broken off halfway.
The storm lasted for three days, halfway through the second the boy went out from under the table again to go to the stockroom for food and water, he took his wooden soldier with him.
When the wind had died down and rainwater no longer streaked the cracked glass of the window, the boy dared to go outside. He followed the furrows that his father's fingers had dug through the earth all the way to the end. The brambles had been cut down by the wind and hailstones, and the boy passed through them easily to reach the other end of the island. He had been there but rarely, and decided on the spot that he would never go again. Here the marks of his father's fingers ended, at the very edge of the island.
The boy returned to his home, and watered the tomatoes.
The boy had no name, his father had never seen fit to give him one since there was no one else on the island. Similarly, the boy knew his father only as 'father'.
The island was surrounded on all sides by the endless blue expanse of the sky, it floated forlornly at the edge of a storm that never abated, accompanied by its innumerable, interminable siblings.
The storm was the very reason that they were there. The father was from a land far away, that the boy knew was called Onaeus from the disjointed rambling of his father.
His father had been sent by learned men to live there with his wife for five years. He would write about the things he saw at the edge of the storm, draw them if possible, and after five years they would come for them and take them back. It had been twelve years, and the boy's mother had died in childbirth. They lived in a squat hut, thatched with a thin blanket of dried, woven grass weighted down with dirt. It had been built by the father with help from the sailors of the ship that had put them down on the island, using wooden beams and suchlike that had been carried there in the skyship.
The boy was watering the tomatoes when he saw the dark clouds approach. If the boy had ever seen a body of water larger than the shallow pool that they drew their drinking and watering water from, he would have likened the front of clouds that now approached to a massive wave that spanned from horizon to horizon. He called for his father, as he had been instructed to do in these cases. He could tell, though, that this wasn't just any storm.
Storms were a regular occurrence at the island, and the father still dutifully recorded each and every one of them. They were never this big though. It was almost as if the storm, the really big one at the center of it all, was coming for them. Or maybe they were going towards it.
The father came out of the house, tottering on his feet and paper in hand. He had received a prodigious stack of paper when he had been put on the island twelve years ago, but there was precious little left of that now. The boy feared what would happen when it ran out. His father had taken the brewing a sour and repugnant rotgut from the berries that grew on the island, and he was drunk almost all of the time. The boy did not know this, he did not know what being drunk was and did not know the man his father had been.
The boy fled inside, he had been outside in lesser storms enough to know that taking shelter was a wise course of action now. His father had lost his wits and wisdom long ago, and stayed outside with a piece of charcoal and some paper. The paper was already being blown away by the oncoming wind, but the father paid no heed. He stared at the storm with a mad and wild relish. The boy cowered at the house's single window, watching his father as he knelt down. There was a stone, a flat stone that his father always used to draw on. The boy wasn't allowed to stand on the stone ever, but his father had never explained exactly why. His father explained very little of what he bid and forbid.
Hailstones, big ones as large as the boy's clenched fist, started falling on the grass and the roof and the father. He did not wince, and he did not take his eyes off of the storm. He scribbled and wrote, sketched and drew. The boy had stolen glances at his father's drawings a few time. They were the most beautiful things he had ever seen.
The father was bleeding from his balding scalp when the hailstones abated. The wind picked up, and started pulling on the paper. This time he did respond, desperately and frantically grabbing at paper as it flew by, and letting go of what he already held to catch what was still in the air. Most of it was lost, and the father wept. The boy wept with him.
The wind got worse and worse, and it started raining as well. The boy looked at the sky, and it was as if the clouds themselves were falling downward and pouncing on the island like some kind of massive predator. The father had stopped trying to write or draw, and was now on the ground.
His clothes rippled and billowed, and then ripped, as the wind grabbed and tore at him.
The boy watched as his father was slowly pushed back, and out of sight. He dragged his finger nails through the rocky soil, ploughing it as he went. After his father had disappeared from view, bot boy went away from the window and hid under the table. He hummed to himself to drown out the sound of the wind and the rain. Sometimes he told himself stories, and during a lull in the wind he boldly ventured out to retrieve the wooden toy soldier had cut for him from some of the wood that had been left over from the construction of the house. It was old and worn, it had cracks here and there, and the gun was broken off halfway.
The storm lasted for three days, halfway through the second the boy went out from under the table again to go to the stockroom for food and water, he took his wooden soldier with him.
When the wind had died down and rainwater no longer streaked the cracked glass of the window, the boy dared to go outside. He followed the furrows that his father's fingers had dug through the earth all the way to the end. The brambles had been cut down by the wind and hailstones, and the boy passed through them easily to reach the other end of the island. He had been there but rarely, and decided on the spot that he would never go again. Here the marks of his father's fingers ended, at the very edge of the island.
The boy returned to his home, and watered the tomatoes.
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Don't get me wrong, I think you have something here. It just needs a second look to make everything really gel together properly.
The toy soldier also sorta comes out of left field, so to speak. Having that feature prominently early on might give his reckless action of going to get it a little more oomph.
Some more specific things:
This sentence just seems to go on and on. It also has some errors in structure and what appears to be some missing bits. I think "sometimes he told himself stories" would work better as part of the previous sentence, while shortening the rest will give it more impact. "Once, during a lull in the storm, he boldly ventured out to retrieve his wooden toy soldier; it was the only gift his father ever gave, made from scrap wood after the house was built."
Other than that, I think cleaning up and tightening the narrative, juicing the description a bit so that not everything is so cut and dry and Ben Stein-esque, would make this a much stronger read. What I mean by this is that you talk a lot about the storm, but you don't evoke the imagery associated with storms. There's none of the precursor feeling that comes with storms on the horizon though you come close with the "wave from horizon to horizon" bit. There's not much in the way of the boy's actual feelings regarding the storm, whether he understands and fears them, or whether he's just been taught to understand and fear them but truly doesn't understand them at all. There's no smell or sound or reverberation in the bones of particularly solid cracks of thunder. There's no sense of any emotion except what we're told the father does.
Language is like a martial art; if you have a strong foundation, feel free to improvise.
Language is like a martial art; if you have a strong foundation, feel free to improvise.
These stories are told in such a remote way and rely so much on description that one detail out of place throws the balance off entirely. I would really recommend for these types of pieces that you dig deeper and figure out the most basic things about the people in your stories. Give them names, give them goals, give them purpose. As a reader, I'm not really that interested in "the boy" and since this is his story... that's kind of a problem.
I feel like these characters seem designed to be such archetypal nameless beings that they lose a lot of effect just by not being more well-defined and believable as people. You're playing with some really intriguing concepts in this story that I think would be a lot stronger if they were populated with people rather than archetypes.
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