Something I Don't Want to Think About

I returned from the graveyard and, after searching for the right key, finally got my door open. The air of the house was stark against the chilly pre-sunrise breeze, and I rushed in. I put the kettle on. I had just sat down to read the newspaper and enjoy my morning coffee when I felt the tree staring at me. The tree out the window, in the middle of the garden,

      it was watching me, begging for something. I tried to ignore it, and huddled in my chair with the newspaper. The front-page article was something about a tree being thirsty. I flicked through a few pages, and settled on an article about ignoring your problems.

      But…

      It was still watching me. It wasn’t mad, or resentful, just expecting. Like a dog waiting to be let in, or a hungry baby waiting to be fed. There was something exceedingly uncomfortable about its attention. It was like a fly buzzing loudly around the room. Something I didn’t want to think about, but every time I tried to swat the fly, I would find my own hand holding back. I didn’t want to hit the fly. I didn’t want to think about it.

      The tree was still staring at me. I fell asleep and had nightmares about trees growing eyes.

 

I awoke in the night, and it was silent but for a faint voice. I heard it through the window, it was my wife’s voice. But she was dead. This didn’t make any sense, but I couldn’t bear to face her again. I shut my eyes and listened. Like a coward.

      ‘…and I felt a faint tug in my chest. Then it was like a throbbing tide, breathless. Then a sudden stab in my heart, and I collapsed. My head was swimming in an ocean, I sank in and it looked like I was in a tunnel, and I could only faintly feel the kicks of my child like it was trying to break out of an egg. That was your special day, you know. That was your birthday.’

      It was like a dream to hear her voice again, but they were sorrowful tears I shed as I fell back asleep.

 

I awoke in the morning, and the tree had moved a little closer to the window. That fiend, trying to block the morning sun! I was going to berate it but… my hand hovered over the door handle. I didn’t want to talk to the tree today, or water the tree, or look at the tree. I pulled the curtains across the window, so It wouldn’t stare at me, and sat down to read the newspaper. The front page was about the sudden snowfall over my back garden. There was a tapping on the window.

      ‘It’s cold daddy, I’m cold.’

      It was cold. I went and brewed myself a coffee, and put on a warm cardigan. I only felt colder.

      ‘Daddy, please, it’s cold out here, my leaves are gone and my branches are bare, daddy please.’

      The morning sun would’ve been warm, if it wasn’t for the snow. I fell asleep shivering in my chair.

 

I awoke, and chose not to open the curtains. This was sick, I felt an enemy in my own home. This room was too close to the back door. I dragged my chair into the kitchen, out of sight of the window. That helped. The newspaper headlined with something about a tree, I didn’t read any further. I crumpled it up and threw it in the bin before it could persuade me otherwise. I suppose paper was made of trees, isn’t it? Maybe they were both against me, maybe they had been from the moment I bought that damned newspaper.

      I could tell I was paranoid. The newspaper was already crumpled though, and I didn’t feel like fishing about a bin to get it back. At least I was close to the kettle. A few drinks later and I was feeling warm again. I curled up in my chair and slept.

 

I awoke and, hopeful the tree had finally gone, opened the curtains. It should’ve let the morning sun come in, but it wasn’t. The tree was right up against the window, and was blocking the light. Enough was enough: the tree had to go. I picked up an axe from below the sink and went out to the back garden. There were endless seas of barren mud in every direction – my house was alone. The sky was cloudy, and the tree was silent. I walked up and struck it with my axe. It screamed, a blood-clutching scream of anguish and betrayal. I struck again, and again it screamed. One of the knots in the wood contorted and melded, and a baby’s face was there in its place. It was crying and screaming and looking right at me. I struck again, and pierced the bark this time. More knots on the tree started changing. The skeletal branches turned to fat little baby arms, grasping desperately at the air. I struck again. The gash began to drip red sap. I struck again. The drip became a tide, and red torrented from the wound. The wood strained and creaked like it was begging. One of the baby faces formed right on the ridge of the cut, but I struck again. The creaking became crunching and splattering and splintering and the tree tumbled down with a hard crash. The barren muddy wasteland filled up to my knees with blood.

      For a moment there was a pause in the flow, and the day would’ve been calm if not for the screaming. It didn’t stop screaming, and flailing its little arms in every direction. It found purchase on something below the blood and began to crawl towards me. Will nightmares ever die! I ran back inside and curled up in my chair. The window shattered and the chimera ripped its arms on the glass as it yanked itself inside. Its faces were red and blue and black like berries off a vine and like a mandrake’s voice it paralysed me. I tried to fall asleep, like I had so many times in this chair. I closed my eyes and covered my ears and tried to not feel the arms that pulled at the hem of my trousers and clambered up my side and clawed at my hair and there was the blood again. It rose up quickly and blocked my eyes, and leaked through my fingers to pressure my eardrums and choke my lungs and

Here's my notes and earlier drafts:

In true Salad Fingers fashion, I want to do a surrealist writing about using a tree for a metaphor about child abandonment.

 

What is the relationship between the child and the MC. No, who is the MC.

A father whose wife died while she was pregnant.

 

There’s also the idea of mixing a bit of poetry in there since if there’s ever a writing form that screams surrealist, I gotta say its poetry.

 

As part of the class exersize, I need to write down a plot structure before I write, so here we go – A father living with grief feels like he is being judged by a tree growing in his back garden. The tree has an engraving on it similar to that of a tombstone for his wife, who died mid-pregnancy. A real “for sale, baby shoes, never worn” kind of situation. The father eventually decides to cut the tree down as a metaphor for trying to move on, but the tree grows the arms and faces of a baby, crawls into his house (metaphor for safe space or personal comfort? Isolation?). and kills him. The final part of the story is a coroner performing an autopsy and finding the father overdosed on sleeping pills. This is going to be a complex balance of displaying a man overcome with depression, dealing with feelings of helplessness as his life crumbles through no action of his own (maybe wife died of heart attack?), and the delirium of overdose.

Kinda like that first death in the game What Remains of Edith Finch where a little girl dies of food poisoning that makes her throw up and choke in her sleep, but we see it through her dreams. Before she goes to bed, she’s been locked in her room without dinner, so she goes around and finds food. A rotted carrot, mistletoe berries and an entire tube of toothpaste. She dreams of becoming a cat and eating a small bird, of becoming an owl and swallowing a rabbit whole, becoming a shark, then a monster that eats humans. Then that monster crawls through the sewers into her bedroom.

 

Draft 1

The Tree (Working title)

 

I sat down to read the newspaper and enjoy my coffee, but I felt the tree staring at me. The tree out the window, in the middle of the garden, it was watching me. It was begging for something. I tried to ignore it, and huddled in my chair with the newspaper. The front-page article was something about a tree being thirsty. I flicked idly through a few pages and found a lovely article about a father selling a pastel pink pram.

‘I think the tree’s thirsty, Frank’

I stopped pretending to read, and just sipped my coffee idly

‘Frank’

I looked across the room, and there was a pastel pink pram. The toy doll inside was enjoying a cup of hot chocolate, and staring at me.

‘The tree, the one in the back garden, its thirsty, can’t you tell?’

‘The tree can get its own coffee’

‘Coffee is an adults drink, you should give it some warm hot chocolate, but not too hot, you don’t want to burn its roots’

I relented, and brewed a pitcher of hot chocolate.

I walked out the back door and crossed the muddy yard, nearly tripping on a headstone that had been carelessly placed in front of the door. They were uniform, in rows of five, but with enough of a gap for me to fit between them. I got to the tree and it was faintly crying, but went silent as I poured the hot chocolate in the ground next to it. When I made it back inside, the doll had fallen asleep in the pram, so I collapsed in my chair and did the same.

I awoke in the night, and looked into the back garden. One of the headstones had uprooted, and crawled up to the tree. The headstone was reading the tree a bedtime story.

‘…and she felt a faint tug in her chest. Then it was like a throbbing tide, breathless. Then a sudden stab in her heart, and she collapsed. Her head was swimming in an ocean, and she could only faintly feel the kicks of her child like it was trying to break out of an egg. That was your special day, you know. That was your birthday’

The bedtime story was familiar, and cradled me back to sleep.

I awoke in the morning, and the tree had walked a little closer to the window. That fiend, trying to block the morning sun! I was going to berate it but… my hand hovered over the door handle. I didn’t want to talk to the tree today, or water the tree or look at the tree or see the tree. I pulled the curtains across the window and sat down to read the newspaper. The front page was about sudden snowfall over my back garden. There was a tapping on the window.

‘Its cold daddy, I’m cold’

It was cold. I went and brewed myself a coffee, and put on a warm cardigan. I only felt colder.

‘Daddy, please, its cold out here, my leaves are gone and my branches are bare, daddy please’

The morning sun would’ve been warm, would’ve warmed the entire house if I didn’t have to have the curtains drawn. I fell asleep shivering in my chair.

I awoke and the curtains were open, but the morning sun was not coming in. The tree had walked right up to the window, and was blocking the light. Blocking the only sun this room ever got. Enough was enough, the tree had to go. I picked up an axe from below the sink and went out to the back garden. There were endless seas of barren mud in every direction – my house was alone. The sky was cloudy, and the tree was silent. I walked up and struck the tree with my axe. It screamed, a blood-clutching scream of anguish and betrayal. I struck again, and again it screamed. One of the knots in the wood contorted and melded, and a baby’s face was there in its place. It was crying and screaming and looking right at me. I struck again, and pierced the bark this time. More knots on the tree started changing. The grasping branches turned to fat little baby arms, with all of them up there it was like a head of hair. I struck again. The gash began to drip red sap. I struck again. The drip became a tide, and red torrented from the wound. Around the cut, the wood strained and creaked at the pressure of it. One of the baby faces formed right on the ridge of the cut, but I struck again. The creaking became crunching and splattering and splintering and the tree tumbled down with a hard crash. The stump became a fountain of shooting crimson that flooded the barren landscape into a permanent layer of blood that stained up to your knees.

For a moment there was a calm in the flow, and the day was silent if not for the screaming. It didn’t stop screaming, and flailing its little arms in every direction. It found purchase on the soil and began to crawl towards me. Will nightmares ever die! I ran back inside and curled up in my chair. The window shattered and the chimera ripped its arms on the glass as it yanked itself inside. Its faces were red and blue and black like berries off a vine and like a mandrakes voice it paralysed me. I tried to fall asleep, like I had so many times in this chair. I closed my eyes and covered my ears and tried to not feel the arms that pulled at the hem of my trousers and clambered up my side and clawed at my hair and there was the blood again. It rose up quickly like a torrent to flood the room, and burned like copper on my tongue and pressured my eardrums and filled my lungs and

 

 

The coroner finished his report on the corpse the police had brought him. No injuries, or sign of a struggle. He had died from overdosing on sleeping pills. The coroner ruled it a probable suicide, and opted against an investigation.

 

 

 

The Initial Plan (placed here to avoid spoilers)

As part of the class exercise, I need to write down a plot structure before I write, so here we go – A father living with grief feels like he is being judged by a tree growing in his back garden. The tree has an engraving on it similar to that of a tombstone for his wife, who died mid-pregnancy. A real “for sale, baby shoes, never worn” kind of situation. The father eventually decides to cut the tree down as a metaphor for trying to move on, but the tree grows the arms and faces of a baby, crawls into his house (metaphor for safe space or personal comfort? Isolation?). and kills him. The final part of the story is a coroner performing an autopsy and finding the father overdosed on sleeping pills. This is going to be a complex balance of displaying a man overcome with depression, dealing with feelings of helplessness as his life crumbles through no action of his own (maybe wife died of heart attack?), and the delirium of overdose. Obvs this is going to be surreal, that’s the fun of it.

 

The Narrative Discourse –

The plan was mostly adhered to – the themes of depression and delirium were adhered to, but I feel I missed out a bit on feelings of powerlessness in the first half. The tree and the story itself stopped being focused on the wife and instead on the unborn child, which is probably for the best. After all, it’s the less trodden path. The first person narrative added to the unease because we feel a sense of mundanity attached to this uncanny surrealism, like he sees nothing out of the ordinary in this extraordinary circumstance. The idea of sleeping and waking became an interesting idea as it emphasises the lack of clarity in reality. Where is the dream where is the real, is this all in our heads or is there a splinter of truth. The inclusion of sleeping pills and coffee and mentioning nightmares supported this semantic field.

Writing something heavily influenced by the workings of the human mind is exceedingly difficult. In general, when we’re in our heads, we tend to skip over a lot of things. Like we’re bouncing from one scene to the next, going to sleep then immediately waking up. When we see something, we link it to other things. Frank sees a pram and suddenly there it is in his room, with a toy baby drinking hot chocolate. He sees a tombstone and suddenly his back garden is a graveyard, then the tombstone shows up later singing a lullaby, and the tree talks, possibly because of the toy doll talking. It helped Franks mind transition from people talking to objects talking by seeing the toy doll – a bridge between human and inanimate, speaking first.

In general, the story is about representing Franks mental state. He just wants to escape his depression, to feel the sun on his face, but his problems keep creeping up on him. He tries to ignore them, but you can’t just make trauma and loss go away. In the end, Frank puts in a real effort to try and escape, to cut off his problems at the stump but it overwhelms him and pushes him off that final edge. He drowns in loss and ends his life. The final short paragraph is in third person because we’ve left Franks head and entered reality proper, only to see the one true thing that happened.

 

 

Feedback for The Tree.

Investigate the effects of cough syrup.

The poem about the fallen elm had a line mentioning the ‘nightmare between sleeping and awake’

I didn’t use the work ‘awoke’ too much.

The hacking of the tree is nice.

Towards the start, it was difficult to orient yourself. Maybe start a bit more normal, then devolve. Its more clear to get there slowly, rather than starting out full mentalist.

It feels at the start like I’m being weird for the sake of it, and not drawing people in but instead confusing them.

 

 

Draft 2

From the Tree in my Back Garden

I returned from the graveyard and, after searching for the right key, finally got my door open. The welcoming stagnant air of the house was stark against the chilly pre-sunrise breeze, and I rushed in. I washed last night’s plates, watered the flowers on my wife’s chair and put the kettle on. I had just sat down to read the newspaper and enjoy my morning coffee when I felt the tree staring at me. The tree out the window, in the middle of the garden,

      it was watching me, begging for something. I tried to ignore it, and huddled in my chair with the newspaper. The front-page article was something about a tree being thirsty. I flicked through a few pages, and settled on an article about ignoring your problems.

      But…

      It was still watching me. It wasn’t even mad, or resentful, just expecting. There was something exceedingly uncomfortable about its attention. With such clumsy branches as those, I doubt it could pour a cup of coffee for itself. No, coffee wasn’t for children. Hot chocolate, or something like that. I buried my face back into the newspaper.

      It was like a fly buzzing loudly around the room. Something I didn’t want to address, something about the tree I didn’t want to think about, but every time I tried to swat the fly, I would find my own hand holding back. I didn’t want to hit the fly. Didn’t want to solve the riddle…

      And the tree was still staring at me.

      I relented, and brewed a pitcher of hot chocolate.

      I walked out the back door and crossed the muddy yard, nearly tripping on a headstone that was carelessly standing in front of the door. The graveyard was still looking lovely today. The headstones were uniform, in rows of five, but with enough of a gap for me to fit between them. I got to the tree and it was faintly crying, but went silent as I poured the hot chocolate in the ground next to it. I returned inside, and collapsed in my chair as I fell asleep.

 

I awoke in the night, and it was silent all but for a voice. I looked into the back garden, and one of the headstones had uprooted, and crawled up to the tree. That headstone… I recognised it, it was the one I had decorated this morning, the one engraved for her. The headstone was telling the tree a bedtime story.

      ‘…and I felt a faint tug in my chest. Then it was like a throbbing tide, breathless. Then a sudden stab in my heart, and I collapsed. My head was swimming in an ocean, and I could only faintly feel the kicks of my child like it was trying to break out of an egg. That was your special day, you know. That was your birthday.’

      It was like a dream to hear her voice again, but they were sorrowful tears I shed as I fell back asleep.

 

I awoke in the morning, and the tree had walked a little closer to the window. That fiend, trying to block the morning sun! I was going to berate it but… my hand hovered over the door handle. I didn’t want to talk to the tree today, or water the tree or look at the tree. I pulled the curtains across the window and sat down to read the newspaper. The front page was about the sudden snowfall over my back garden. There was a tapping on the window.

      ‘It’s cold daddy, I’m cold.’

      It was cold. I went and brewed myself a coffee, and put on a warm cardigan. I only felt colder.

      ‘Daddy, please, it’s cold out here, my leaves are gone and my branches are bare, daddy please.’

      The morning sun would’ve been warm, if it wasn’t for the snow. I fell asleep shivering in my chair.

 

I awoke and the curtains had opened themselves, which would’ve let the lovely morning sun come in, but it wasn’t. The tree had walked right up to the window, and was blocking the light. Blocking the only sun this room ever got. Enough was enough, the tree had to go. I picked up an axe from below the sink and went out to the back garden. There were endless seas of barren mud in every direction – my house was alone. The graveyard must’ve wandered off. The sky was cloudy, and the tree was silent. I walked up and struck it with my axe. It screamed, a blood-clutching scream of anguish and betrayal. I struck again, and again it screamed. One of the knots in the wood contorted and melded, and a baby’s face was there in its place. It was crying and screaming and looking right at me. I struck again, and pierced the bark this time. More knots on the tree started changing. The skeletal branches turned to fat little baby arms, grasping desperately at the air. I struck again. The gash began to drip red sap. I struck again. The drip became a tide, and red torrented from the wound. The wood strained and creaked like it was begging. One of the baby faces formed right on the ridge of the cut, but I struck again. The creaking became crunching and splattering and splintering and the tree tumbled down with a hard crash. The stump became a fountain of crimson, and the barren muddy wasteland filled up to my knees with blood.

      For a moment there was a pause in the flow, and the day was calm if not for the screaming. It didn’t stop screaming, and flailing its little arms in every direction. It found purchase on something below the blood and began to crawl towards me. Will nightmares ever die! I ran back inside and curled up in my chair. The window shattered and the chimera ripped its arms on the glass as it yanked itself inside. Its faces were red and blue and black like berries off a vine and like a mandrake’s voice it paralysed me. I tried to fall asleep, like I had so many times in this chair. I closed my eyes and covered my ears and tried to not feel the arms that pulled at the hem of my trousers and clambered up my side and clawed at my hair and there was the blood again. It rose up quickly and blocked my eyes, and leaked through my fingers to pressure my eardrums and choke my lungs and

 

I was found the next day, rope taught, hanging from the tree in my back garden. Reunited.

 

 

Draft 3

To the Tree in my Back Garden

I returned from the graveyard and, after searching for the right key, finally got my door open. The welcoming stagnant air of the house was stark against the chilly pre-sunrise breeze, and I rushed in. I washed last night’s plates, watered the flowers on my wife’s chair and put the kettle on. I had just sat down to read the newspaper and enjoy my morning coffee when I felt the tree staring at me. The tree out the window, in the middle of the garden,

      it was watching me, begging for something. I tried to ignore it, and huddled in my chair with the newspaper. The front-page article was something about a tree being thirsty. I flicked through a few pages, and settled on an article about ignoring your problems.

      But…

      It was still watching me. It wasn’t even mad, or resentful, just expecting. There was something exceedingly uncomfortable about its attention. With such clumsy branches as those, I doubt it could pour a cup of coffee for itself. No, coffee wasn’t for children. Hot chocolate, or something like that. I buried my face back into the newspaper.

      It was like a fly buzzing loudly around the room. Something I didn’t want to address, something about the tree I didn’t want to think about, but every time I tried to swat the fly, I would find my own hand holding back. I didn’t want to hit the fly. Didn’t want to solve the riddle…

      And the tree was still staring at me.

      I relented, and brewed a pitcher of hot chocolate.

      I walked out the back door and crossed the muddy yard, nearly tripping on a headstone that was carelessly standing in front of the door. The graveyard was still looking lovely today. The headstones were uniform, in rows of five, but with enough of a gap for me to fit between them. I got to the tree and it was faintly crying, but went silent as I poured the hot chocolate in the ground next to it. I returned inside, and collapsed in my chair as I fell asleep.

 

I awoke in the night, and it was silent all but for a voice. I looked into the back garden, and one of the headstones had uprooted, and crawled up to the tree. That headstone… I recognised it, it was the one I had decorated this morning, the one engraved for her. The headstone was telling the tree a bedtime story.

      ‘…and I felt a faint tug in my chest. Then it was like a throbbing tide, breathless. Then a sudden stab in my heart, and I collapsed. My head was swimming in an ocean, and I could only faintly feel the kicks of my child like it was trying to break out of an egg. That was your special day, you know. That was your birthday.’

      It was like a dream to hear her voice again, but they were sorrowful tears I shed as I fell back asleep.

 

I awoke in the morning, and the tree had walked a little closer to the window. That fiend, trying to block the morning sun! I was going to berate it but… my hand hovered over the door handle. I didn’t want to talk to the tree today, or water the tree or look at the tree. I pulled the curtains across the window and sat down to read the newspaper. The front page was about the sudden snowfall over my back garden. There was a tapping on the window.

      ‘It’s cold daddy, I’m cold.’

      It was cold. I went and brewed myself a coffee, and put on a warm cardigan. I only felt colder.

      ‘Daddy, please, it’s cold out here, my leaves are gone and my branches are bare, daddy please.’

      The morning sun would’ve been warm, if it wasn’t for the snow. I fell asleep shivering in my chair.

 

I awoke and the curtains had opened themselves, which would’ve let the lovely morning sun come in, but it wasn’t. The tree had walked right up to the window, and was blocking the light. Blocking the only sun this room ever got. Enough was enough, the tree had to go. I picked up an axe from below the sink and went out to the back garden. There were endless seas of barren mud in every direction – my house was alone. The graveyard must’ve wandered off. The sky was cloudy, and the tree was silent. I walked up and struck it with my axe. It screamed, a blood-clutching scream of anguish and betrayal. I struck again, and again it screamed. One of the knots in the wood contorted and melded, and a baby’s face was there in its place. It was crying and screaming and looking right at me. I struck again, and pierced the bark this time. More knots on the tree started changing. The skeletal branches turned to fat little baby arms, grasping desperately at the air. I struck again. The gash began to drip red sap. I struck again. The drip became a tide, and red torrented from the wound. The wood strained and creaked like it was begging. One of the baby faces formed right on the ridge of the cut, but I struck again. The creaking became crunching and splattering and splintering and the tree tumbled down with a hard crash. The stump became a fountain of crimson, and the barren muddy wasteland filled up to my knees with blood.

      For a moment there was a pause in the flow, and the day was calm if not for the screaming. It didn’t stop screaming, and flailing its little arms in every direction. It found purchase on something below the blood and began to crawl towards me. Will nightmares ever die! I ran back inside and curled up in my chair. The window shattered and the chimera ripped its arms on the glass as it yanked itself inside. Its faces were red and blue and black like berries off a vine and like a mandrake’s voice it paralysed me. I tried to fall asleep, like I had so many times in this chair. I closed my eyes and covered my ears and tried to not feel the arms that pulled at the hem of my trousers and clambered up my side and clawed at my hair and there was the blood again. It rose up quickly and blocked my eyes, and leaked through my fingers to pressure my eardrums and choke my lungs and

 

I was found the next day not in my chair, but outside, by a kicked over stool. Around my neck was taught rope, tied to the tree in my back garden. We can be together now, a happy family.

      I refuse to be left behind.

 

Having an ending in general seems unnecessary. Why don't I just cut off the story mid-sentence?