The Dandelion Tree

[Mike rench]

Hi this is the prologue to my book The Dandelion Tree:


The sun exposed the beach in its glare. Holidaymakers mixed with locals, flesh tanned, children played, waves swam away as the tide receded. With worries left in cars reaching boiling point, carefree days rolled over the cliffs to give a lightness to the touch of toes beneath bobbing breasts and Bermuda shorts.

Isaac shielded his eyes from the glare and looked through the assortment of mix and match bodies.

‘What is Jacob carrying?’

The silhouette of Abe and Esau danced across the divide of ocean and sand as Jacob struggled forward.

Isaac looked at his wife, Rebekah. She lay reading a book, her soft underside squashed into her beach towel. Coconut sun-crème glistened on her back, a white band of skin ran below her shoulder blades. Isaac got to his feet. Seeing his father, Jacob started to run.

‘Daddy, Daddy!’

The size of Jacob’s find overcame him. He fell.

Isaac nudged Rebekah, ‘I think you need to see this.’

‘What?’

‘Jacob has outdone himself.’

Rebekah sighed and clipped her bikini straps, ‘Can’t we have just five more minutes?’

‘Rebekah,’ said Isaac, ‘Jacob’s found something, it would be like King Canute trying to hold back the sea.’

Rebekah sat up, ‘What’s he found?’

‘Look.’

‘Bloody hell!’ said Rebekah, ‘there’s no way we’re taking that home.’

It had started a year ago. The first was a frog. Isaac remembered its egg shaped pupils protruding from the tyre marked body. The second, a dead baby swallow left outside their bedroom door. The third, a yellow spotted newt left in the shower with one leg missing. The garden was a graveyard. Rows of lollipop sticks identifying the dead in poppy borders.

Jacob placed the seagull down.

‘Look!’

‘Sweetheart,’ said Rebekah, ‘where on earth did you find that?’

‘In the sea.’

‘Jacob,’ said Isaac, ‘we’ll have to bury it here, in the sand, okay?’

Sunlight caught a tear in the corner of Jacob’s eye.

‘Are you pleased with me Daddy?’

Isaac looked at the fish nibbled carcass before him, then at Abe and Esau making their way up the beach.

‘Yes Jacob, I am pleased with you, but it will stink the car out.’

Jacob’s shoulders dropped. His eyes searched through the grains of sand.

 

[Rien]

I'm going to ignore the fact that it's a prologue for a book, because that always confuses me a bit.

The writing itself was a little too chaotic. A bit too cut-off. It was as though you were trying to shove too many details up, too quickly. I had to read it a few times to catch what you were actually saying. It really seemed as thought you were rushed throughout the whole thing.

That might just be me, though.

 

[SevenWritez]

I agree with what Rien said. I'd suggest going back and taking a more paced approached so as to where the reader can take the scene in and digest it in small bits, versus trying to swallow the whole chicken at once.

Not only that, but to me it seemed as if in certain parts (his feet overwhelmed him), you were telling more so than showing. Try describing the scene as if you were an outsider observing, as opposed to giving quick "here's-how-it-happened," descriptions so that the reader can infer what is happening versus being led by their hand.

Other than that, I enjoyed it, and I'm glad to see more people posting their work here. Keep it up.

 

[Mike rench]

The Dandelion Tree: Chapter 1

Chapter 1
Night is Coming

The glow of the terminal bled into the sky to light the wings of vagrant seagulls. White rain fell and splattered over the train as it left the protection of arced plastic like a pig leaving its sty to forage for truffles. Isaac looked out of the window as the station pulled back, then glanced at his Rolex watch. 5:17: five minutes late. Around him, businessmen sat with paper drawbridges waiting for the track to lead them to supper, children, wives, mistresses. The train picked up speed and with a sigh the driver picked up his evening standard. Behind him the length of the day brought fatigue across evening faces like Marmite spread across dry toast.
Isaac opened his book. It was The Bible Revisited by D.B Night that he had bought from the station shop. Beside him, an old man’s head bobbed with the rhythm of the train; his newspaper coming close to his eyes then receding again with each nod, like waves breaking on granite.
A chapter in, the train slowed and stopped at a station. Isaac put his book down.
The carriage spat out a few morsels, then ate whole those waiting to board. Doors shut behind them like the toothless gums of an old woman. The train pulled away from its concrete harbour leaving cars tethered in the carpark like a flotilla, each marked by their captain with a printed sticker claiming his mooring site.
Isaac checked his watch again.
The stale smell of sweat pushed out of the impregnated seats by the overfeed buttocks of businessmen and seeped around the carriage. Above their heads the electric arms of the train rose like grasshopper feet to connect with the overhead cables. The train danced along the track following the line of the wires. A puppet to the routine.
Isaac glanced at the woman sat opposite. She had a self-help book clasped in her hand and held it close to her lips as if she was kissing a holy relic.
‘Pop Noodles for the brain,’ thought Isaac looking at the book. ‘Hearts ripped from stories and presented as shopping lists.’
The woman lowered her book and for a brief moment their eyes met. Isaac looked away, then up again. She had returned to her Pop Noodles.
‘Tickets please.’
Isaac put his hand inside his jacket pocket and produced his monthly pass. The conductor clipped it and handed it back. Isaac watched the woman pull her ticket from her book. He glanced at her left finger. No ring. He was forty-two, ‘Perhaps in her early thirties?’ he thought.
‘Thank you,’ said the conductor handing back the bookmark.
Isaac looked around; papers became barbed wire, suitcases rabid dogs, overcoats: vultures flapping in the overhead storage rack waiting to dine on flesh.
‘Hmm,’ thought Isaac. He sucked in his imagination, inhaling it as if nicotine to his soul. He lifted up his laptop, powered it up and breathed out. Heads nodded, vultures snapped, dogs barked and the old man of granite fell asleep.
The woman opposite glanced at him again. The dying light streamed through the window. It played over the gaps between her buttons on her blouse and caressed her face.
Isaac opened his e-mail and scanned the subject headings. One caught his eye. The woman turned a page, then coughed.
Isaac read the proposal: an alarm clock made out of sheets of paper. One sheet for each day of the year. Write the time you wish to wake on the page, when the alarm sounds, rip the page from the others, crumple it up to stop the noise, then throw it away.
‘Hmm,’ thought Isaac. ‘Crumple Clocks? I’ll sleep on it.’
A ruffle of paper distracted him from his thoughts. A man next to the woman had dropped his paper and fallen asleep with his head pressed against her chest. Isaac looked at the saliva flowing from the man’s open mouth. The woman pushed him upright. He flopped back like a rag doll.
Isaac set his laptop down on the empty seat beside him, ‘Let me help you.’
The woman nodded and smiled. Isaac leant over and tipped the man towards the cold comfort of the window. The sleeper grunted and sucked up his dribble like a man slurping froth from a beer. Isaac turned to the woman, realised that he now commanded a view down the curve of her cleavage and sat back.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman.
‘No problem,’ said Isaac. The woman continued to smile at him. Isaac shifted in his seat.
‘What is your book about?’ he said.
‘How to manage your emotions.’
‘God we’re talking,’ thought Isaac. ‘People aren’t supposed to talk to each other on the train.’
‘Would you like to look?’ said the woman.
‘Er, thanks but no.’
‘She’s still looking at me,’ he thought. His heart rate increased, adrenaline ran like blood from an open wound. He smiled and picked up his book. A snatched image of her thighs pushed back the words.
‘What is yours about?’ said the woman.
‘It’s The Bible Revisited by D.B Night,’ said Isaac trying not to look at her breasts.
‘Is it funny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Read a bit to me.’
‘Er, okay …’ Isaac flipped pages in his book. ‘Um …In the beginning God said, ‘Let
there be light,’ and lo roads were dug up and electricity piped to every house. And man planted the garden of Eden to reduce God’s carbon footprint.’
The woman laughed; as she did her face lit up like a Christmas Tree in a bleak December. A man on the other side of the train straightened his paper and tutted.
Isaac smiled, her laughter calmed him. His heart rate reduced.
‘Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself,’ he said extending his hand, ‘I’m Isaac Steward.’
The woman looked at his hand, then clasped it, ‘Jane, Jane Peter.’
The evening disappeared as the train went through a tunnel. Isaac became aware of the throb of wheels over tracks underneath him.
‘I work for Tamarisk,’ said the woman. ‘You might of heard of it, we did the advertising campaign for the Conservatives at the last election.’
Isaac nodded.
‘What do you do?’ asked the woman.
‘I’m the managing director of Tamarisk,’ said Isaac.
‘Shit,’ said the woman. ‘Really?’
Isaac laughed, ‘yes.’
‘So, what shall we talk about?’ said Jane.
‘We are talking then?’ said Isaac. ‘You know that’s against British Rail regulations. I think there is some bylaw somewhere.’
‘We are talking,’ said Jane smiling.
‘What sort of things do you like?’
‘I like my work-’
‘This isn’t an interview.’
‘Okay,’ said Jane, ‘I hate my job, I hate sitting on this crap old train surrounded by the living dead, I hate the way my toaster makes me jump every morning.’
‘You hate a lot of things.’
‘What do you hate?’
‘Well,’ said Isaac, ‘I dislike-’
‘Hate, go for the hatred, it brings things into focus.’
‘Okay, I hate getting up in the morning, I hate Sunday supplements, I hate being held in a queue, soap operas, dishes, arguments, DIY and sometimes,’ Isaac looked at Jane. ‘Sometimes I hate people.’
‘Like?’
‘I’m not going to name names.’
‘You are.’
Isaac smiled, ‘Do you know John Trench?’
‘No.’
‘Good, then I hate him.’
‘There you go. Now what do you love?’
‘I love …I love ...’
Jane looked at Isaac’s book, ‘You love reading.’
‘I suppose. And you?’
‘I love sitting in the fading light overlooking an azure lake, with a drink in my hand, laughter inside my head, a flutter in my heart, birdsong to serenade me, good food on the table, and-’
A pause.
‘And?’
Jane looked at Isaac for a moment, then said, ‘Good company.’
‘Sounds like you love poetry as well,’ said Isaac.
‘Yes.’
‘So why are you reading a self help book? I hate them, they’re like life squeezed through a bloody spell checker.’
‘We’ve finished the hate stuff.’
‘Sorry, it’s just-’
‘I have my reasons,’ said Jane.
A judder went through the carriage; Isaac looked at the sign on the station as the train pulled up to the platform.
‘This is my stop,’ he said.
‘Mine too,’ said Jane.
‘Fancy a drink?’ said Isaac.
Jane flicked a strand of hair away from her face, looked down at her feet then into Isaac’s eyes again, ‘Okay.’