Not only was it cooler under the tree it also offered some respite from the sun’s blistering heat. But water; there should have been some water. How else was a damn tree supposed to grow in a desert without some water?
Jackson looked down at his hands; they were cut and red raw from the holes he had dug close to the tree’s roots in search of its elusive life force. When he had no luck there he’d tried digging a few feet away from the tree, back out in the hot sun, but all he found was an endless depth of fine sand that fell back into the hole as soon as he stopped his frantic scrabbling. And so he returned to the tree, pulled bark away from the trunk in the hope that it might contain some moisture, but it had been as dry as the skin on the dead horse he found laying half-buried in a sand dune. It was one of many dunes he had crossed since the plane crash.
The plane crash, how long ago was it? A day, maybe two.
The sun had risen and set, of this much he was sure, and one other thing. The crew, Hopkins, Ash and Taylor had all been killed when the plane, its engines clogged with sand from the storm which engulfed them, crashed in the heart of the desert. Their smashed and bloodied bodies lay as testament to this. Yet he survived, a miracle was the thought that passed through his mind as he gazed upon their shattered remains. But the thought of miracles soon faded as he left the wrecked plane and went in search of… what, what had he sought in this forgotten realm where shifting sand left no trace of his path?
Jackson eased himself back against the tree and felt a tremor. The tree was almost as dead as he would soon be, its rotten timbers had done no more than stress under his weight. It groaned again, the sound like hunger pangs, he knew them well.
He saw his shadow laid long against the sand and looked to the sky. The sun, a large, all seeing red eye set in a furnace sky, was headed for the horizon. Soon the night would be upon him and with it the cold. And if mercy abandoned him, he feared she might have, this end of days seemed no more than a cruel trick, a vision of hell, then the wind would rise and his flesh would feel a thousand iced stings as the sand whipped against it.
Jackson pulled his knees up close to his chest; wrapped his arms around them and wished.
He wished that the plane had never crashed, that they’d skirted the storm or rose high above its swirling sands. He wished for a companion, one of his crew mates, so that he would know that he was more than a spectre wandering trapped upon the earth with no clue as to home or heaven, for the horse to have been alive and carried him far from this barren, lifeless place, for the tree to have fulfilled its distant promise of hope and not let it fade into the dry sand that it stood rooted in.
All things need to drink, to take in that which preserves them. He wished for the rain that must surely fall even is this desolate place, for the crash to have claimed him, and as his thoughts became more entwined with the dark edges of sleep he wished for no more than a rest from these days.
He never saw the sunset nor the sky darken and the first bright stars appear. He was unaware that mercy was good to her name and kept the wind at bay. Or that the scorpions with their stingers raised, they scurried out from under the rocks as soon as the sun had set, came no closer than to the edge of the branch’s furthest reach. For even they, despite their want, were not of a kind to challenge.
A slight, soft brush against his arm roused him from slumber. As he rose from the depths of the dream world he saw night’s dark cloak all around him, it was full of pinprick holes that allowed piercing white light to shine through. He felt as if he were ascending, rising into these heavens, then, as the boughs which carried him aloft began to wrap around him he felt his arms break; his spine snap, and finally, as the pinprick points of light fell to black, his skull crack and collapse.
The tree drank of his blood and the life force that it offered. And the scorpions waited in a sentinel line, for they knew, that soon, the tree would once again bear its fruit.
Mark Allen. writes in Essex, England.
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15 Responses to “LIFE FORCE • by Mark Allen.”
Comments
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June 23rd, 2009 at 5:09 am
Really well written. You can sense his terror and isolation. Great job, Mark.
June 23rd, 2009 at 6:15 am
I thought this story was okay. I didn’t think Jackson was a very sympathetic character. Other than his condition of being stranded, the strongest impression was that he was a bit of a whiner “I wish this, I wish that”. If wishes were wells you’d be drinking water, amigo. So when he died, it wasn’t something that moved me. The other aspect of the story I didn’t quite get was the reference to mercy. “Mercy was good to her name and kept the wind at bay”. Yes, and then she turned a blind eye when the tree ate him, unless that was a kind of mercy as well. Didn’t sound like it with all the bone snapping going on.
I did like many aspects of this story, particularly the visual aspects of this story. I could see it quite well, the wrecked plane, the dead horse and finally the fatal embrace of the tree. Kudos.
–John
June 23rd, 2009 at 6:24 am
A solid enough tale, with a lot of potential.
The flow of this story was somewhat impeded by typos and punctuation problems.
Perhaps a final edit was needed.
June 23rd, 2009 at 6:48 am
Great! Five stars. Definitely NOT the way I expected it to end, I like a bit of a surprise.
I didn’t notice any typos, maybe I was just too engrossed in the story to worry about them (I think I tend to copy-edit more if the story ISN’T holding my attention).
June 23rd, 2009 at 7:31 am
Some really nice descriptions in this story. I loved the final two lines.
June 23rd, 2009 at 7:32 am
Regarding the basic concept – approximately the basic reason writers write – I will always think deeply about cautious scorpions waiting to eat fruit from a resusitating desert tree and opossum-playing blood eating desert trees with wraparound arms, and I too wish the plane had never crashed. I will never forget this warning example and advice to never allow your friends to die in a plane crash, leaving yourself without companions.
June 23rd, 2009 at 8:31 am
I loved the description of the island and the plane crash at the biginning and the terrifying horror at the end.
June 23rd, 2009 at 8:43 am
Okay! Just had another read. Only found two typos, so not much of a problem there:
‘lying’ half buried / they’d skirted the storm or ‘risen’ /
I think it was the punctuation more than anything else that made this piece stutter for me.
This story could easily be extended – with more foreshadowing and flashback – into a unique horror piece.
June 23rd, 2009 at 9:16 am
A nice twist of horror on a survival story. Good flow, kept me reading.
–dj
June 23rd, 2009 at 10:03 am
It was hard to get into this one due primarily to stilted language and an unlikely premise (a carnivorous tree in the middle of the desert? What does it eat between airplane crashes? How does it get enough energy to lift its prey?.
And, he felt his arms break, but didn’t feel pain? Didn’t feel terror? He’s the most dispassionate victim I’ve ever seen. Very difficult to identify with him.
There’s no horror in a tree eating a dude unless the victim conveys it to us. No struggle? No sense of doom, of helplessness? The reader shrugs.
June 23rd, 2009 at 10:21 am
Mark,
- Your prose are good, and you have a clear, logical flow. You just need to learn to showcase your action to add power.
- The style was pleasant to read and you made the piece short which kept the reader from drifting off with the languid tone. I think you missed your chance to slap the reader out of the general, ‘last dying gasp’ feeling of the story though. You covered the heat and thirst and fading senses, but you never slapped the reader back to life as the character was murdered.
- You had him drift off into– “He felt as if he were ascending, rising into these heavens, then, as the boughs which carried him aloft began to wrap around him . . .”
- And then the whole tone of the action shifted, but the tone of the writing really didn’t–
“he felt his arms break; his spine snap, and finally, as the pinprick points of light fell to black, his skull crack and collapse.”
- You described the action, but you missed the struggle, the horror, the sudden–heart stopping terror of the victim. Without that the tale loses its power-punch at the end. Hunts, conflicts, and struggles all have drama. A fly being swatted does not. ‘And it was smashed’ is correct, but its limp biscuit writing.
- Just make sure you write your action with drama and you’ll add a lot more power to your stories.
June 23rd, 2009 at 12:55 pm
It’s nicely gruesome, but I had a couple of niggles. What’s the difference between ‘cooler’ and ’some respite from the sun’s blistering heat’? Also, if his back is to the tree, would he really see his own shadow?
June 23rd, 2009 at 1:54 pm
Good story. Creepy. I especially liked the last line.
June 23rd, 2009 at 4:46 pm
The numerous typos took me out of the story–or maybe it was the fact that I didn’t really care much about Jackson and so almost missed the ending. When I did catch it, all I could think was, “Clever tree!” The story needs a bit more work.
June 24th, 2009 at 11:38 am
Thanks for all the comments and advice. Much appreciated.