everyadventure
01-31-2011, 01:14 AM
It’s an autumn afternoon in rural Virginia. Maybe the air is acrid with the scent of woodsmoke, or rank from the thick mud of the marsh. I can’t say, the memory is too far gone. But there are the russet oaks, still holding proudly to their leaves, while canary aspens quiver.
I can’t recall his name. His face, in retrospect, is an unmemorable one… nevertheless, I remember. It’s a long face, measled with acne: zits, pimples, and boils in various stages of evolution. His chin has the nondescript fuzz of a kiwi fruit. These are my impressions, as I search this memory twenty years past. At the time, however, I thought him cute. He was, after all, sixteen… and age alone is reason enough for a little girl to develop a crush. And somehow, miraculously, we’re alone, in the thickly forested area behind our housing development.
This is all I have: his narrow face. My own shrill voice, screaming two words again and again: “Save me! Save me! Save me!” That is all.
There are two possible endings for this story. Which would you like to hear?
The air is acrid with the bitter scent of woodsmoke. I’m collecting acorns, they rattle in a plastic margarine tub. My best friend Becca knows how to string them onto necklaces and she promised she’d show me how.
A flash of blue catches my eye, and I realize that someone is sitting on a fallen log, his thin back curving away from me. “Hey!” I shout. He turns around gradually, as though he’s moving through syrup. Slowly, he brings a short, fat cigarette to his lips and sucks at it thirstily. He blinks at me with the dull eyes of a toad.
I fold my wiry arms across my flat chest and thrust my chin at the boy. “What are you doing here?” The land doesn’t belong to my family, but many hours of exploration have made me possessive of it.
He shrugs lazily and exhales with an exaggerated sigh. I stare openly at his long face and bristled chin and decide he’s harmless. I sit beside him; the softened log gives way a bit under my weight. “Wanna see my acorns?” I ask, shaking the container invitingly.
He leans forward and peers into the tub. “Aaacorrrns,” he drawls. “Those… are... so…” He pauses at length between words, and I have time to worry about what he’ll say. “Stupid.” “Babyish.” “Dumb.” “…Rad.”
I smile, revealing a gappy grin. “I’m gonna make a necklace with them,” I explain, swirling my hand around in the bucket. “But it takes a long time to find enough for a necklace. I’ve been looking for ages.”
The boy nods sagely. “Aaacorrrns,” he says, “grow on trees.”
“I knew that,” I quickly retort. “Everybody knows that.” What, does he think I’m stupid?
“So the place to find aaacorrrns,” he continues, “is in a tree.” For a moment I’m dumbfounded. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
“Help me find an acorn tree!” I beg. The boy tilts his head, sizing me up.
“Very well,” he says, “a quest!”
We walk for a while through the woods, I bang the pail against my leg. He’s quiet except for the inward hiss of his cigarette. He stops suddenly and squints discerningly upward.
“That—“ hiss—“is an aaacorrrn tree.” The tree is massive, its branches blaze endlessly through the sky. “Come on,” he says, “I’ll give you a boost.” He drops the cigarette’s white nib and smears it with his foot. I follow him hesitantly. The lowest branch seems very, very high…
“Maybe we could find a… smaller tree?” I ask timidly.
He shakes his head gravely and pats the tree’s roughened trunk. “No, this tree is our destiny,” he says seriously. He brightens. “Up you go!” He clasps his hands together, forming a step. From there I wrap my arms around his pimpled neck and scramble onto his sinewy shoulders. “Stand up!” He demands through clenched teeth. I grasp oily hair in both fists and unsteadily rise. “Grab the branch! Grab it, dammit!”
Startled into action (“he said a swear!”), I throw myself at the branch. Quickly I wrap my legs around the limb and hoist myself up. “I did it!” I shout.
He brings his thumb and forefinger together, forming an OK sign. “Destiny.” He tries to toss the bucket up to me, and the acorns I’d harvested scatter over the forest floor. “No problem, plenty more where that came from,” he laughs.
And he’s right, they’re everywhere. I concentrate on collecting acorns, climbing higher and higher. My bucket grows heavy. “I’m done,” I call through the bright leaves. He doesn’t answer. I climb down a couple branches, clenching the rim of the margarine tub uncomfortably between my teeth. “Hey, I’m finished!” Silence.
I try to make my way down, but the maze of branches makes no sense. How did I get up here? The boy has left. Panic races through me.
“Save me!” I scream shrilly. “Save me! Save me!” But no one comes.
Is that the ending you wanted? Or were you awaiting something darker?
The air is rank from the thick mud of the marsh. I’ve come to the woods with the idea of making the world’s largest leaf pile, but I’m disappointed. The trees are still holding proudly to their leaves. In another week, the forest floor will be buried in them, but not today.
I’m ready to turn around and go home when I spy a bit of blue between the trees. I creep closer, and see the thin back of a boy kneeling in the dirt.
“Hey!” I shout. I fold my wiry arms across my flat chest and thrust my chin at the boy. “What are you doing here?”
The boy leaps to his feet in a fluid movement, his lanky limbs oddly graceful. I know him by sight, he sometimes shoots hoops in his driveway down the block. I have a bit of a crush on him--although I'll never say so out loud-- his height and age being his main qualifications.
Fear, then anger, flash in his amphibian eyes. His chin bristles menacingly as he lurches toward me. Startled, I step backward, tripping on the undergrowth. I land sharply on one wrist, and open my mouth to yell, but the sound dies in my throat as I notice his unzipped pants.
My mind struggles to make sense of what, exactly, I’m seeing. But the boy lunges at me, pinning me to the ground. “Save me!” I scream shrilly. “Save me, save me!” The boy presses his forearm against my throat. I kick wildly, but he leans in harder and claws at my stretch pants. I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand. The pain is sudden and sharp, my stomach is heaving and my head is floating. I focus on an open magazine nearby. I stop struggling, and calmly look into the flat eyes of the page’s supple centerfold.
Alternate endings. Would knowing the truth change who I am?
I can’t recall his name. His face, in retrospect, is an unmemorable one… nevertheless, I remember. It’s a long face, measled with acne: zits, pimples, and boils in various stages of evolution. His chin has the nondescript fuzz of a kiwi fruit. These are my impressions, as I search this memory twenty years past. At the time, however, I thought him cute. He was, after all, sixteen… and age alone is reason enough for a little girl to develop a crush. And somehow, miraculously, we’re alone, in the thickly forested area behind our housing development.
This is all I have: his narrow face. My own shrill voice, screaming two words again and again: “Save me! Save me! Save me!” That is all.
There are two possible endings for this story. Which would you like to hear?
The air is acrid with the bitter scent of woodsmoke. I’m collecting acorns, they rattle in a plastic margarine tub. My best friend Becca knows how to string them onto necklaces and she promised she’d show me how.
A flash of blue catches my eye, and I realize that someone is sitting on a fallen log, his thin back curving away from me. “Hey!” I shout. He turns around gradually, as though he’s moving through syrup. Slowly, he brings a short, fat cigarette to his lips and sucks at it thirstily. He blinks at me with the dull eyes of a toad.
I fold my wiry arms across my flat chest and thrust my chin at the boy. “What are you doing here?” The land doesn’t belong to my family, but many hours of exploration have made me possessive of it.
He shrugs lazily and exhales with an exaggerated sigh. I stare openly at his long face and bristled chin and decide he’s harmless. I sit beside him; the softened log gives way a bit under my weight. “Wanna see my acorns?” I ask, shaking the container invitingly.
He leans forward and peers into the tub. “Aaacorrrns,” he drawls. “Those… are... so…” He pauses at length between words, and I have time to worry about what he’ll say. “Stupid.” “Babyish.” “Dumb.” “…Rad.”
I smile, revealing a gappy grin. “I’m gonna make a necklace with them,” I explain, swirling my hand around in the bucket. “But it takes a long time to find enough for a necklace. I’ve been looking for ages.”
The boy nods sagely. “Aaacorrrns,” he says, “grow on trees.”
“I knew that,” I quickly retort. “Everybody knows that.” What, does he think I’m stupid?
“So the place to find aaacorrrns,” he continues, “is in a tree.” For a moment I’m dumbfounded. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
“Help me find an acorn tree!” I beg. The boy tilts his head, sizing me up.
“Very well,” he says, “a quest!”
We walk for a while through the woods, I bang the pail against my leg. He’s quiet except for the inward hiss of his cigarette. He stops suddenly and squints discerningly upward.
“That—“ hiss—“is an aaacorrrn tree.” The tree is massive, its branches blaze endlessly through the sky. “Come on,” he says, “I’ll give you a boost.” He drops the cigarette’s white nib and smears it with his foot. I follow him hesitantly. The lowest branch seems very, very high…
“Maybe we could find a… smaller tree?” I ask timidly.
He shakes his head gravely and pats the tree’s roughened trunk. “No, this tree is our destiny,” he says seriously. He brightens. “Up you go!” He clasps his hands together, forming a step. From there I wrap my arms around his pimpled neck and scramble onto his sinewy shoulders. “Stand up!” He demands through clenched teeth. I grasp oily hair in both fists and unsteadily rise. “Grab the branch! Grab it, dammit!”
Startled into action (“he said a swear!”), I throw myself at the branch. Quickly I wrap my legs around the limb and hoist myself up. “I did it!” I shout.
He brings his thumb and forefinger together, forming an OK sign. “Destiny.” He tries to toss the bucket up to me, and the acorns I’d harvested scatter over the forest floor. “No problem, plenty more where that came from,” he laughs.
And he’s right, they’re everywhere. I concentrate on collecting acorns, climbing higher and higher. My bucket grows heavy. “I’m done,” I call through the bright leaves. He doesn’t answer. I climb down a couple branches, clenching the rim of the margarine tub uncomfortably between my teeth. “Hey, I’m finished!” Silence.
I try to make my way down, but the maze of branches makes no sense. How did I get up here? The boy has left. Panic races through me.
“Save me!” I scream shrilly. “Save me! Save me!” But no one comes.
Is that the ending you wanted? Or were you awaiting something darker?
The air is rank from the thick mud of the marsh. I’ve come to the woods with the idea of making the world’s largest leaf pile, but I’m disappointed. The trees are still holding proudly to their leaves. In another week, the forest floor will be buried in them, but not today.
I’m ready to turn around and go home when I spy a bit of blue between the trees. I creep closer, and see the thin back of a boy kneeling in the dirt.
“Hey!” I shout. I fold my wiry arms across my flat chest and thrust my chin at the boy. “What are you doing here?”
The boy leaps to his feet in a fluid movement, his lanky limbs oddly graceful. I know him by sight, he sometimes shoots hoops in his driveway down the block. I have a bit of a crush on him--although I'll never say so out loud-- his height and age being his main qualifications.
Fear, then anger, flash in his amphibian eyes. His chin bristles menacingly as he lurches toward me. Startled, I step backward, tripping on the undergrowth. I land sharply on one wrist, and open my mouth to yell, but the sound dies in my throat as I notice his unzipped pants.
My mind struggles to make sense of what, exactly, I’m seeing. But the boy lunges at me, pinning me to the ground. “Save me!” I scream shrilly. “Save me, save me!” The boy presses his forearm against my throat. I kick wildly, but he leans in harder and claws at my stretch pants. I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand. The pain is sudden and sharp, my stomach is heaving and my head is floating. I focus on an open magazine nearby. I stop struggling, and calmly look into the flat eyes of the page’s supple centerfold.
Alternate endings. Would knowing the truth change who I am?