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A View of the Ocean 1st Draft

Short story By: Ririe

After reading Edgar Allan Poe's "The Philosophy of Composition" I was inspired to write this piece. I will be editing and adding to it, and for that reason would like some constructive criticism.

Submitted:Jan 27, 2013    Reads: 115    Comments: 34    Likes: 19   

A View of the Ocean

He was an old gray man that lived upon an old gray hill. His brow hardened by time and skin wrinkled from loneliness. All that kept his heart beating was the view he could look upon every morning from his old chair made of oak.

That rickety old chair sitting on the rickety old deck lead his two brown eyes atop a pair of low fallow hills. From the shallow valley between the two hills laid hundreds of wind torn mountains made of sand. Eventually the mountains smoothed out into the pacific waves.

This was what the man lived for. Every day he could sit in peace and watch the breeze flow through the grass, then over the ocean, and be happy. He had but one hatred within his rhythmic heart. For on the hill there was but one lonely oak tree. How it got there would never be known as no other trees could be seen for miles. Though as if it were put there only to anger the man it stood in such a way that no matter where he would sit, it would always obstruct his view.

It was on one average morning that the man decided to rid the hills of that evil tree. He woke up like he did every morning. Sipping the black coffee as he sat on his porch, eyes fixed upon the tree. As he watched it he saw everything he hated in it. Its cracked brown skin, its tired branches hanging low, its leaves slowly dying as the drifted to the ground, and most of all was the way it stood so mockingly still, day in and day out it stood there staring back at him.

After the cup was empty he put his old bones into motion, towards the small shed out back. In the shed he found his weapon of choice; a clean axe with a shiny untouched blade, and a smooth handle with a notch at the end to keep it firmly in his hands. The grip of such a quality axe felt good in his palms. Keeping this grip tight he began walking towards the evil oak.

Slowly but surely he trudged on, and soon enough the tree and him met. Never before had the two been so close. He could now smell the scent of ancient sap that slowly but surely dripped from a missing branch. He could see fully the patches of dark moss scattered about its fragile branches. Most of all he saw the gray streaks throughout its once lush bark. With all this he hated that tree more than anything he had ever known. A fire so fierce burned within his chest, and with a yell he gave the axe a swing like the reapers mighty scythe.

The blade plunged deep within the trees hull. As if the tree was letting out a cry the wind blew through its branches making a deep sullen moan. The old man deafened by his rage let out swing after swing until he heard a mighty crack as if lighting had hit the very ground where he stood, and he knew the tree was through.

He wanted to feel relived more than anything, but something was wrong. It was as if in that instant the wind changed and sent to him a horrible gust. He saw it coming and he ran. The great oak was falling, but not as it should. He scrambled as it cascaded towards him, but his frail bones were not what they once were, and in an instant it was over.

The battle between man and earth was ended. Neither one the clear victor. Now all that inhabits the barren hills is one empty chair, and one lone stump.


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