 Action/Adventure: September 12, 2007 Issue [#1935] |
  Action/Adventure
This week: Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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If you only write what you know, how exciting could that be?
- billwilcox
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Writing What You Know
Writing what you know is often times some of the best writing that will ever come out. It is surely what we are told to write about by the experts. For me, my most memorable experiences happened as a child. Even if I am taxed to remember every little detail, this is a story of a childhood quest of exploration of the most thrilling kind: An adventure that turned into a life-or-death situation. It is mostly true . . . mostly.
I remember when I was a kid there was this old tree that leaned as if it were drunk just on the border of our alfalfa field. It was black on one side, its nude branches reaching pitifully toward the sky, and it seemed its gray bark had the shape of half-buried, silently screaming faces.
The lightning bolt which had killed the tree hadn't succeeded in knocking it over, but it had certainly done its best. The lightning had acted like a strong hand, shoving the tree violently, and opening a large hole at the bottom. The hole looked dark and scary, with its crumbly sides and barely glimpsed roots squirming in the deep shadows like a nest of snakes. The hole set me to thinking about pirate treasure . . . outlaw hideouts . . . troll holes . . . . and the like, and if I had had any brains, I would've run off right then and there like all the demons of hell were after me. But I was an adventurous kid, and the thought of a secret hiding place was more than I could withstand, plus, at that age, I was filled with helpless curiosity.
I sat down on the edge of the hole and poked my legs into the gaping, root-lined mouth at the foot of the dead tree while fighting back my fear by gnawing obsessively on my lower lip. Then laying back, I slid beneath the tree, holding my hands over my face to keep dirt from falling into my eyes. I tried not to flinch as gnarled root-knuckles caressed the side of my neck and prodded the small of my back even as small roots dug at my scalp and dangling flaps of bark tickled at my bare arms.
The smell under the tree was a stifling aroma of rich, wet earth and worms kept in a jar. The earth-stench was so thick I felt I was almost eating it. It reminded me of the smell of being in a closed tent full of people with dirty feet and sweaty armpits. A woozy faintness swam through my head like a breaking wave as I realized the slide into darkness caused dirt to gather under my t-shirt and roll down the back of my pants.
I shook it out as best I could when I felt something wiggle beneath my palm. I lifted it to see a squirming night crawler trying its best to escape being crushed. I watched as the worm buried its nose into the soft earth and dug-in, thrashing like a shark that has just bitten into its prey.
Looking around, I noticed the hole narrowed at the bottom allowing me to stand up in it. There was a tree root poking at my eyes and I grabbed it and pulled the damn thing out of my face. It was then that the hole began to collapse around me, the sides crumbling in a muted avalanche of black earth.
The lower half of my body was suddenly buried and I was unable to free myself. Desperation nibbled at my mind, and I felt a heavy sinking feeling that pressed up from my guts and into my chest. I was not claustrophobic by nature, but now I felt a panicky desire to get-out that squeezed upon me like my hand had squeezed that worm. I remember thinking I didn't want to die in the dark, in smothering agony, with no voice left after several hours spent screaming for help. I realized then, that no one would ever find me. No one.
Just before I lost complete control of myself, I thought I heard something--a faint sigh, like the whisper of the ocean in a seashell. The sound was as lonely as a November wind on an overcast afternoon, but incredibly sweet as well. Where it came from I do not know, but I began to calm down. Wiping at my dirty, sweat-streaked face with the back of my hand, I exhaled heavily and relaxed. Then I began to dig my way out, pushing the dirt behind me as I struggled to free my legs. Even as I worked, loose earth fell into my hair and eyes and threatened to bury me alive. I worked faster--harder, throwing dirt behind me like a dog digging for something it smells rotting in the ground.
Finally, I could move my legs again and wriggled forward on my belly like the first creature that ever crawled from the primordial ooze. I saw the sunshine at the mouth of the hole and smelt the sweet scent of fresh air.
I was free.
I rolled over on my back, spent, and taking the sweet air in great long pulls of breath. I thought air had never in my whole life tasted so good. I stared for a long time at the gloriously-blue sky, and the relief I felt was unimaginable. I was grinning from ear-to-ear and enormously grateful to be alive.
Writing what you know is like that: no more than remembering something that happened to you in the past or something that pertains to your particular expertise. It could be something that happened yesterday, or something as far back as your adventurous childhood. The point is that life is full of adventure, and I bet you a hole in the ground you've had one that others would love to read about.
Until next time,
billwilcox
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Adventurous Picks of the Thrilling Kind . . .
(Featured Author: Peter Yule  )
[Excerpt] The metal, would be melted down and cast into the mold to fashion a bell for the ship. That is where the bell came from. The blood and flesh of slaves and done with their own labor. That damned iron bell.
[Excerpt] Obviously toward the end of the day, when one man asked just how he had done this tremendous thing all alone, his advice and response was that it was “really no great challenge, it was all a matter of common sense”. Man he said was given by God all the tools he needed to face any challenge, tackle any task, face any peril, do any chore, perform any deed.
(Featured Author: )
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[Excerpt] We climbed up on the side of the chute and I watched as Festus and John put the rigging on Smokey. He was about nine hundred pounds with a shaggy grey winter coat. I looked the horse in the eye and got my first surprise. These weren’t the placid brown doe-eyes I was used to seeing on a horse. There was fire in ‘em.
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[Excerpt] Billy Wardley lay on his back in the bright sun of Fallujah. He didn’t know how badly or even how many times he’d been hit. He could hear shouts and commands, gunfire and explosions. He tried to focus on what was happening but his mind just wouldn’t respond. Like his shattered body, it was just beyond his reach.
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[Excerpt} Each figure crouched low to the ground, one behind the other as we had moved, anxiously peering into the maelstrom below us, wondering how we were going to make it the rest of the way without being seen. Gunfire rang in my ears as weapons of all calibers exploded fire and flash into this night of nightmares.
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[Excerpt] Yourk figured he had two choices, follow his captors and eventually escape, to figure out what had happened to Selenda, or he could run like hell – and join the other nine members of his crew. Deciding that he wanted to live a little while longer, he raised his hands and surrendered, slowly approaching the three women. Carver and Janotra followed suit.
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[Excerpt] The war started right on time. The sergeant and the boy watched the infantry march onto the field of battle. First it was the artillery that took its pound of flesh. The infantry did its duty, keeping up their advance. When the cavalry of both sides charged into the fight it was as if the sergeant and the boy had ring- side seats to hell. Now the time had come for them to stop being spectators.
[Excerpt] The next ten minutes were filled with harassment and intimidation as Nick was continually slapped and hit about the face and head. The terrorists, for that is what Nick immediately assumed these men were, filled the car with a rapid language foreign even to Iraqi’s. It sounded Egyptian or Arabic to Nick, and he became even more afraid as the car veered down alleyways and deserted streets.
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[Excerpt] “Listen, Frank, dammit! This has got to be some kind of secret attack! There’s no one between them and our main forces. It's up to us, Frank. We’ve got to slow 'em down!”
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Email From Some Flounder . . .?
andromeda
Submitted Comment:
Well, I don't know about leaving kids behind. I AM one of those kids, and I love having fun with my siblings. I like camping too.
PS: I read in a book that an author actually went out and tried to start a fire with a flint rock and a steel hatchet. (the character in the book had to do the same thing) He then went and showed his wife. I think she laughed...
-Andromeda
Gunny
Submitted Comment:
I just want to thank you heartily for including my 'Fellow Warriors' in your NewsLetter. I had a really good belly laugh at your memorable vacation. You brought back memories of my own 'white-knuckle' flights where I have arrived at my destination absolutely exhausted because I was the only one keeping that damned airplane airborne. I could easily relate to the over-eating and over-drinking bouts with my own brother who could out-do me in both sports. And you know what? I think you're right...you CAN piss of the dead...can't you?
I think what you are doing is wonderful. It certainly encouraged me to try hard to be included once again in your NewsLetter.
-Ed
fleckgirl
Submitted Comment:
Bill - LOVED the camping/getting together with the brothers story! Yes, it is true that our bodies don't seem to hold up to all the stuff we used to do in our younger years, but that doesn't stop us from trying! Hangovers are not fun on a flight, so I hope yours was short-lived.
Thanks for sharing the story - it was enjoyed immensely!
-Fleck
Christopher Corcoran
Submitted Comment:
Very nice job with this newsletter. Keep up the good work!
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