Dylan12133
July 8th, 2013, 03:58 AM
Hey guys, I just wrote this short story and was wondering if I could get some feedback on it. It's a bit lengthy, but any advice/criticisms/appraisals would be appreciated. :)
Similarly to his father, Peter Haggard sat in his backyard every morning for one hour and twelve minutes. There wasn’t a particular purpose or specific reasoning behind this peculiar decision – it was unbidden, supposedly – but there he sat, waited, and pensively observed. A patient and forthcoming adolescent, never did he perceive this event to be enduring, nor did he ever deem it to be monotonous. Rather, it was pleasantly serene – an unconscious routine that had never failed to bring forth a mournful barrage of cleansing tears.
So often was he greeted with a listless, yet enthralling tussle between a lone sun and a menacing cloud, each dogmatic in their attempts to command the sky. A shrill chirping would occasionally pervade his surroundings, drawing his attention toward a swivelling pallet of white belonging to that of a familiar group of terns. Rhythmically streaming across the horizon, he often speculated as to the whereabouts of their indistinct destination – his attempts to discern such a mystery hindered by the receding cliff face jagging out from the mangrove-infested shoreline.
As the flock disappeared from sight, he’d stare with intent at his tender toes, camouflaged by an untidy bed of decaying grass, before peering back up at a dampened, timber fence. Faded by the corrosive sea-salt of the nearby coast, its image always seemed to somehow – and incessantly – mirror his doleful mood. From the corner of his weary eye, he’d spot the ageing pines; graceful, yet violent as they swayed in unison – the magnitude of their overall movement decided upon by the strength of the erratic autumnal breeze. They often appeared to be waving; dancing; even signalling – but he knew better.
More often than not, his attention would turn toward the tree stump at his left. Once home to the site of an almighty Broad-Leafed Paperbark – whose colossal structure towered over him – was nothing but a sombre land now, bereft of any real importance. He often labelled it a tree of age and a tree of wisdom, but above all else, a tree of memories. He’d always been fond of it. He vividly remembered hanging and swinging from each bendy branch, clinging to each as though a drop would inevitably result in a perilous decent into an abyss of molten rock and lava. With an overview of the convoluted nest of estuaries, he’d lounge atop its gargantuan structure, gazing far and wide as the soft air of the cool coastal breeze swiftly grazed his rosy cheek. How times had changed.
A once vibrant and flourishing coastal fisherman, Peter’s father, Hank, was now but a broken man whose will to live had all but deserted him. Crippled by a debilitating tumour of the lung, the declination of his physical and emotional wellbeing had begun to take a rather hefty toll on those around him, especially Peter. For the past fourteen months, the dirty white and olive walls of the ICU had essentially assumed the form of his home, with the constant and unsettling stench of hospital disinfectant doing little to lift his forlorn spirits. Whether he was able to muster up enough strength to shift his chunky body mattered little as the mundane nature of the derelict hospital ward had left him with a searing sense of overwhelming hopelessness.
Despite having always possessed a fierce admiration toward his once loving and committed father, Peter had now begun to view him as an overwhelming burden. As Hank’s ability to communicate efficiently and effectively deteriorated with time, so too did his son’s once faultless patience. Peter began to lament the fact that he’d have to spend countless hours of his day confined to a dingy hospital room at his father’s side, when a vibrant world beckoned on the outside. Though, upon reminiscing over their time together on the fishing trawler, he’d be consumed by a staggering sense of remorse.
Peter’s thoughts trailed back to his first outing in the local bay. As if on cue, a half-hearted smile began to surface as he recalled the fierce excitement he felt in regards to such a momentous occasion. As promised four weeks prior, Hank gathered the lines and bait in the back of his ageing boat, venturing out into the Indian Ocean with his son by his side. Peter could hardly contain his excitement as he peered overboard, looking on with sheer ecstasy as his curly hair elegantly fluttered in the swirling breeze. Enveloped by a tranquil ocean, the two lounged under an amiable sun – their only company a mischievous group of terns spearing into the slate-coloured ocean, snatching their bait with little remorse. It was this very moment, this very feeling that Peter had so boisterously yearned for – one that would never be forgotten.
With this memory lingering in the back of his mind, Peter sat and stared – aimlessly, yet purposefully. Overwhelmed by a staggering sense of bitterness and regret, he relentlessly scolded his guilt-ridden self. How could he have been so self-centred; so callous; so intolerant? Unable to handle his intense grief, an endless river of tears began to flow, each one discharging a world of pain as they pierced the shabby rubber flooring. Having been called in to the hospital at such a peculiar time of day, a vicious feeling of uneasiness began to dwell within him, dramatically increasing with each passing second.
Peering through a foggy hospital window, he was faced with a foreboding sky that threatened to unleash an almighty tantrum, as a barrage of violent waves thrashed against an unsuspecting shoreline. A disconcerting lull soon fell over the waiting room as a nurse appeared bearing news which would forever alter Peter’s life – an edict marking his decent into a bleak realm of regret and anguish, the likes of which he would never be able to fully recover from. Consumed by the weight of current events, Peter’s thoughts again trailed back to his first outing in the bay; the serenity of the situation helping to ease his ever-growing affliction.
Similarly to his father, Peter Haggard sat in his backyard every morning for one hour and twelve minutes. There wasn’t a particular purpose or specific reasoning behind this peculiar decision – it was unbidden, supposedly – but there he sat, waited, and pensively observed. A patient and forthcoming adolescent, never did he perceive this event to be enduring, nor did he ever deem it to be monotonous. Rather, it was pleasantly serene – an unconscious routine that had never failed to bring forth a mournful barrage of cleansing tears.
So often was he greeted with a listless, yet enthralling tussle between a lone sun and a menacing cloud, each dogmatic in their attempts to command the sky. A shrill chirping would occasionally pervade his surroundings, drawing his attention toward a swivelling pallet of white belonging to that of a familiar group of terns. Rhythmically streaming across the horizon, he often speculated as to the whereabouts of their indistinct destination – his attempts to discern such a mystery hindered by the receding cliff face jagging out from the mangrove-infested shoreline.
As the flock disappeared from sight, he’d stare with intent at his tender toes, camouflaged by an untidy bed of decaying grass, before peering back up at a dampened, timber fence. Faded by the corrosive sea-salt of the nearby coast, its image always seemed to somehow – and incessantly – mirror his doleful mood. From the corner of his weary eye, he’d spot the ageing pines; graceful, yet violent as they swayed in unison – the magnitude of their overall movement decided upon by the strength of the erratic autumnal breeze. They often appeared to be waving; dancing; even signalling – but he knew better.
More often than not, his attention would turn toward the tree stump at his left. Once home to the site of an almighty Broad-Leafed Paperbark – whose colossal structure towered over him – was nothing but a sombre land now, bereft of any real importance. He often labelled it a tree of age and a tree of wisdom, but above all else, a tree of memories. He’d always been fond of it. He vividly remembered hanging and swinging from each bendy branch, clinging to each as though a drop would inevitably result in a perilous decent into an abyss of molten rock and lava. With an overview of the convoluted nest of estuaries, he’d lounge atop its gargantuan structure, gazing far and wide as the soft air of the cool coastal breeze swiftly grazed his rosy cheek. How times had changed.
A once vibrant and flourishing coastal fisherman, Peter’s father, Hank, was now but a broken man whose will to live had all but deserted him. Crippled by a debilitating tumour of the lung, the declination of his physical and emotional wellbeing had begun to take a rather hefty toll on those around him, especially Peter. For the past fourteen months, the dirty white and olive walls of the ICU had essentially assumed the form of his home, with the constant and unsettling stench of hospital disinfectant doing little to lift his forlorn spirits. Whether he was able to muster up enough strength to shift his chunky body mattered little as the mundane nature of the derelict hospital ward had left him with a searing sense of overwhelming hopelessness.
Despite having always possessed a fierce admiration toward his once loving and committed father, Peter had now begun to view him as an overwhelming burden. As Hank’s ability to communicate efficiently and effectively deteriorated with time, so too did his son’s once faultless patience. Peter began to lament the fact that he’d have to spend countless hours of his day confined to a dingy hospital room at his father’s side, when a vibrant world beckoned on the outside. Though, upon reminiscing over their time together on the fishing trawler, he’d be consumed by a staggering sense of remorse.
Peter’s thoughts trailed back to his first outing in the local bay. As if on cue, a half-hearted smile began to surface as he recalled the fierce excitement he felt in regards to such a momentous occasion. As promised four weeks prior, Hank gathered the lines and bait in the back of his ageing boat, venturing out into the Indian Ocean with his son by his side. Peter could hardly contain his excitement as he peered overboard, looking on with sheer ecstasy as his curly hair elegantly fluttered in the swirling breeze. Enveloped by a tranquil ocean, the two lounged under an amiable sun – their only company a mischievous group of terns spearing into the slate-coloured ocean, snatching their bait with little remorse. It was this very moment, this very feeling that Peter had so boisterously yearned for – one that would never be forgotten.
With this memory lingering in the back of his mind, Peter sat and stared – aimlessly, yet purposefully. Overwhelmed by a staggering sense of bitterness and regret, he relentlessly scolded his guilt-ridden self. How could he have been so self-centred; so callous; so intolerant? Unable to handle his intense grief, an endless river of tears began to flow, each one discharging a world of pain as they pierced the shabby rubber flooring. Having been called in to the hospital at such a peculiar time of day, a vicious feeling of uneasiness began to dwell within him, dramatically increasing with each passing second.
Peering through a foggy hospital window, he was faced with a foreboding sky that threatened to unleash an almighty tantrum, as a barrage of violent waves thrashed against an unsuspecting shoreline. A disconcerting lull soon fell over the waiting room as a nurse appeared bearing news which would forever alter Peter’s life – an edict marking his decent into a bleak realm of regret and anguish, the likes of which he would never be able to fully recover from. Consumed by the weight of current events, Peter’s thoughts again trailed back to his first outing in the bay; the serenity of the situation helping to ease his ever-growing affliction.