Okey dokey. I originally wrote this while I was in high school. Grandiose was not in my nature then . . . but that’s an excuse. I’ll try.
Short Story / One Mile Up (Analysis)
The tip-tapping of a wooden stick, once a young sapling now an aged relic, broke through the quiet morning air of Kentucky’s northern edge. Twenty miles from any gas station, restaurant or any of the more desirable institutions of civilization, a man in his twilight years comes closer to his final destination.
His once strapping body is breaking down. Old, stricken with disease and lost; swimming in eighty-six years of hard life, his body speaks to him in painful voices. Creaking and throbbing with the howling temperature, with humidity, with repetitive motion he labors on, and like a machine wearing down he comes to a halt. He is weeping.
He turns around and looks at his house. In it he bore his entire life, of raising children and loving his wife, and around it his gardens provided abundance in a land of plenty: pumpkins, watermelon, corn, squash, cabbage and green-beans. Red, green, yellow and orange, he had always kept his tiller and hoe moving against the earth. Once they had grown his boys helped him till the land, to work the loose soil through their fingers as generations of his family had always done.
His memories, now a blurred, staccato vision of things that may have been, ran through his skull like a poorly formatted documentary. A tear, as delicate as his heart, fell tumbling to the ground, a final testament to a life of hard labor—of a hard life.
Looking upward the old man saw a mile of tree, shrub, cuts and sweat. On every side a vicious elm reached inward, toward his path with wooden talons, as if daring him to pass.
The old man set forth on his journey to see the vulture and test her hunger. His old boots scraped rock after rock as his hand moved branches from his way. His Eveready walking stick locked into the earth, over and over again, supporting his one hundred fifty pounds with nary a quake. Every so often the old man rested; he could feel the arthritis creeping up on his knees like a wolf toward sheep. Sometimes luck saved him from a tumbling end over end, or crashing his body against rock; yet all of it, disastrous fall or a triumphant cresting of this mountain, ended this final climb.
A rabbit darted in front of him, eyes a-glow with fright—yet it was the old man that came out worse for that meeting. He slipped back and clutched his throat. It seemed funny to be afraid of a rabbit. If asked he would have said that it wasn’t the rabbit but the threat that the rabbit would cause a heart attack, cutting short his journey. He was going to the top. A ten minute pause passed before he recaptured his balance, another ten before he captured his senses.
Bill, for that was his name, was afraid of everything. He feared the girl who hid in her mother's skirt. He feared the boy with the baseball, the ball in mid-air. He feared that another of his family would die before him, and that that person would have to stand before a god they didn't know. He was fear, and fear's best friend.
A wheeze escaped his lips as he looked around for sight of someone else. He saw no one and began to climb again.
"Crunch, swishhh. . ." the noise of the mountains was the only thing he didn't fear. He didn't fear and so he loved. The flight of birds, lowing of cattle, and the squawk of the vulture calmed his heart with familiarity.
“I'm coming.” he thought. “Don’t go away. I'm coming.”
He walked on and on for a half hour. The twigs snapped below his feet and the leaves whispered a farewell song in honor of the brave old man with the old clothes, the old shoes, and the walking stick that wouldn't quit. He watched and heard the scuffle of his own steps amid the noise of nature. This was no noise pollution; this was the mother of his imagination. This was the noise that kept his sanity exactly tuned, exactly refined to the good old days.
A higher mountain lay ahead; a mountain on top of a mountain. At its highest elevation laid the vulture and her nest.
Long ago he would have easily climbed the fifty-foot cliff, but now, old and feeble, everything as a major feat. This was more than a challenge for him, more than he had anticipated.
"I’ve awaited your return, old man." rasped the vulture above him.
His hand reached out to the nearest steady object—a fallen tree. His grip was loose and he had to use both hands, at first, but clambered with speed thereafter. The muddy walls to his left and right hindered his ascent but didn't stop him . . . he was bound for the top. His fingers dug deep into the rich, red soil and his boots gripped wherever they could.
Again the vulture teased him. "Hurry! I leave at noon!" But Bill was not deterred.
Step after step after step. Limb followed limb until he reached the top and kissed the ground.
"Wow!"
The climb had drained him of all the strength he thought he had possessed. There was still more to climb.
A cold night crept over the man's body; his soul slept and then awoke. The old man’s soul stared at its body. The journey was not finished. Eerily, the ghostly soul cried into the March wind atop the mountain, one mile high.
Bill cried over and over, waking only other souls. His wail carried in the wind to the wolf god, the fox god, the god of his own creation.
"I have to finish. I have to finish what I came to do!" said the spirit of the old man. And he walked.
The very edge of the cliff was ten feet away, but to the soul it was like a dash through deep and running water.
The soul pulled and tugged at the draw-string of its life, pulling the body of his physical self along. Ten feet . . . five feet, went the soul of the old man with its dragged body. Soon the old man's soul reached the brink of the cliff—and it smiled.
"Vulture! I made it vulture. Watch my body and eat its remains. . . I offer sacrifice." The soul jumped, pulling its body into an abyss carpeted in pine trees, ancient rock formations and the bones of his ancestors. One mile up, the vulture began its descent.
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trident reviewed Version 2 -
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A nice story, and a fitting end. I must admit though, to a seasoned short story reader it is predictable, and I was looking for a twist – like for instance staring down at the place where he had pushed “her”. Would’ve been nice for the plot to build up to some point of closure for the old man.
Although you have a wonderful way with words, and you have a knack for setting very realistic imagery, I felt at times you got carried away with your own storytelling. I suggest you try a rewrite without looking at the original, and see how it tightens up.
At one point mid-story you refer to him as “Bill” – seems to personal – better if he doesn’t have a name (then he can be everyone’s Granddad).
It’s certainly worthy of publication.
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D_Munn reviewed Version 2 -
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Here is what I see. I see the old man but I don’t get a sense of the woods and the trail he’s following. I think you’ve touched on the woods, but I would like to know more of what he hears from those trees in that isolated place; are the trees , the weeds the ground underneath him as old and dying as he his? I know he feels these things but the words aren’t there yet to tell us. And if we truly need to know his name, my friend , then begin with it otherwise we don’t need to know at all.
It’s an elemental journey you’ve constructed and being such I want to feel and hear and see more of this mans journey and how he relates these senses to his life on the edge of departure.
The story itSElF demands more! I can feel it!
This work demands to be grand.
raebethmcgee reviewed Version 2 -
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Overall-
Red, green, yellow and orange, he had always kept his tiller and hoe moving against the earth.--- What is the colors for?
Once they had grown his boys helped him till the land, to work the loose soil through their fingers as generations of his family had always done.—This sentence could be reworded to help confusion. As of right now it’s a very confusing sentence. The author could try something like this: Once his boys were full grown they helped him till the land, to work the loose soil through their fingers as generations of his family had always done.
Every so often the old man rested; he could feel the arthritis creeping up on his knees like a wolf toward sheep.—This can be turned into two different sentences.
With revision in mind, I would say that run on sentences are present throughout the entire story. There are points throughout the story that are unfinished thoughts.
Ol_Uncle_Pedro reviewed Version 1 -
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Warm a few hearts is a bit of a stretch, but i was more than entertained.
This was excellent.
This story painted an amazing picture to follow. I could almost feel Bill’s ache as he trudged his way up that mountain. There was so much detail in this story that nothing seemed to have to conjured up or filled in because everything i could need was there for me.
I know you say this still isn’t right, but I feel this was amazing, and can’t wait to see what it looks like when it is finished.
thezenix reviewed Version 1 -
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I think the only thing missing is more detail about the character.
Many times I get lost as a reader when the writer is provided detail. This is not the case with this story. I am not sure if it was through many changes or just out of frustration of rewriting the story but I really like this. Honestly, I don’t think you should change anything else. To me this story is like seeing something develop right before your eyes.
If you want to give it that final finesse then I would write more about the character. From what I am reading the character is fed up with life and wants to become one with what he loves, which is the earth. I suggest writing a situation that provides more detailed about his frustration.
If you may I want to you to read this story over again, slowly. As the reader, I wanted to see every word and catch every meaning. You did something that is really hard to do and that is keep the reader interested in the next sentence. I was not reading it as get to the point. However, I was reading it as I can’t wait to the finish, because I know it is going to be great.
Other than the suggestions above, I really liked the story.
ChantMart reviewed Version 1 -
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I found it very interesting, and good, I would not be able to stop reading even If I wanted to.
Very nice short story.
Chantale.
TirzahLaughs reviewed Version 1 -
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You have a talent for great description. I can’t deny that. But the story leaves me flat. The whole story is ‘he’, he, he and finally Bill but he’s not a person to me. He’s a representation. It feels like a parable or a moralistic story but I’m a bit lost about what I’m supposed to take away from it.
I think that’s the problem. You’re writing is good, your word choices great but the plot/theme isn’t quite translating. Good luck with, great potential. Can you clarify what the vulture is? It seems like an old man committing suicide right now.
rollingbolus reviewed Version 1 -
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The tip-tapping patter --- I reckon you could lose the ‘patter’ as the reader can already hear the sound from the ‘tip-tapping’
he could feel the arthritis creeping up on his knees like a wolf toward sheep --- I like this
Sometimes luck saved him from a quick end; but he didn’t care. --- not sure I understand this
the cow’s cry --- doesn’t sound right…..and the rhyming at the sentence’s end seems unnecessary
assent --- ascent
I think that you can write but your problem with this story is that it is drama without enough substance. I don’t know how old you are now, but you say you wrote this in high school….and I know that the things I wrote when I was younger sometimes turned out like this – cryptic battles of the soul which, while satisfying in a way to write, aren’t that satisfying for the reader or for yourself when you look at them later on. You need to give more detail of the old man’s life, and also more at the end. Who is he sacrificing himself to? Why is he going to the vulture? Why does the vulture have to leave at noon?
My advice would be to re-write it with this in mind, flesh it out and make it less cryptic. Either that or write something new – and I’m not saying that to be mean – I just mean that if you wrote this a long time ago then you might be able to spin what you’ve learned from writing this plus what you’ve learned from more time into something different and better
good luck whatever you decide
music1358 reviewed Version 1 -
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I really like the approach, I just am not quite sure if it worked well. The language seemed to distance me from the old man. I don’t know if that was your intent? There was a lot of really great images and metaphors. I wasn’t connected enough. The writing, though, was good.
Bo reviewed Version 1 -
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I think it is metaphorical of challenges of growing old and resistance to it. As someone who is now 58, I can see the look back at what once was and now is and still the challenge of the vulture( world) to do him in. a fitting end to decide when that time will come.
I like the story and it kept me interested throughout. Everything looks good to me, grammar, spelling, punctuation, timing of events-
Great job
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