Bluestone2006
New Member
- Joined
- Nov 14, 2005
- Messages
- 1
- Gender
- Female
- HSC
- 2006
I'm really not happy with this. What can I do to improve it or should I just start over? If I did start over... what are some simple guidelines to keep to? I just made this up as I went along since I was having trouble coming up with ideas.
Thanks for the help! ~ bluestone
The Garden of a Little Girl
Somewhere down a long windy dirt path, that leads though the undergrowth under an enormous forest canopy, through the sharp vines and bushes and streams of water that led from the mountains high above, there lay a little private world. What was once a garden of a little girl whose father was a carpenter, living in a little cottage only a few kilometers upstream, was now a huge overgrown mass of unkempt flowers encompassed in a large stonewall built for her fifth birthday by her loving grandfather.
Julia, the little girl, would trek down the stream to her little hideout every morning, even through rain, storm and even gale, wearing her little yellow parka and accompanied by her father in particularly horrendous weather. She grew all kinds of flowers over the years. At first, she grew flowers that were easy to buy and grow, such as bellflowers, lavender and forget-me-nots. Every day, Julia would fill her watering can at the stream, water every plant individually with as much love and care as her little hands could supply, and wait for a few hours just in case she could catch one growing.
After a week or so, a cacophony of sprigs had spurted out from the ground and Julia was encouraged to spend more time with her plants. She grew a sudden habit of talking to the plants, telling her deepest secrets and every little detail that happened to her. While explaining her father and their lifestyle, things became clearer to her. “He is a strong man,” She admitted, “But he is not intelligent. He chops down wood and calls himself a carpenter but he is not a carpenter. A carpenter makes things out of the wood. He sends the wood to a carpenter in town for prices that are too cheap, and is thought little of by the town.”
The plants never responded, nor did she expect them to, despite her fantasies. But even though they didn’t reply or give her council, she found that just knowing that perhaps they could hear her was enough. With the sudden feeling of freedom in her garden, and a sort of power, she spent hours searching for roses for her garden, until she had made an entire hedge of roses in the center.
The weeks passed drearily by through winter. Julia felt the pain of the plants, yearning for the heat of the summer’s sun. She had covered the plants the best she could, and even without the sun, they grew on the power of her radiating innocence, a fantasy that the plants were people and were all she needed.
Spring began and she found full satisfaction in her hard work as the entire garden bloomed to life, as if they were waiting anxiously for winter to end. Along with the new flowers, butterflies made their way into the garden. Beautiful ones that were blue and red, and a few yellow ones, and violet ones that exactly matched the shade of her purple bluebells. She spent countless hours playing with the new butterflies. Soon, one butterfly became her ‘friend’ and would come and sit on her hand whenever she came in. It stopped leaving the garden at night like the others did. Julia started to tell stories to the butterfly, not things about her but rather imaginations and ideas that came to her.
She began to dream of a better life, of a better father and how much more she could do in the world if she was able to access the resources of the world. Julia came to believe, just from the accomplishment of her garden, that she was better than her father, the mere carpenter-who-was-not-a-carpenter. In her garden, he would be stunned by her work, and would tell her that it was the best he had ever seen. Julia felt the truest joy in her life and swore to herself that the garden would be the best in the world.
As Julia spent more time in the garden, the butterflies began to obey her further and constantly hovered around her as if in worship of her brilliance. Julia wondered why they should stick around her, imprisoned by the need to idolize her. “If I were a butterfly, I would show off my beautiful colors to every passerby,” She admitted whimsically, with a small laugh, the butterflies started to dance around her like a musical of colors, “I don’t see how butterflies can be so very modest. If butterflies were to boast their beauty, they could control the world and make the world worship them.” The butterflies buzzed in agreement.
Slowly, yet surely, the butterflies started to ignore Julia when she came in. She would have to search for them, and even then, they would hover above her, just out of reach. Just as strangely, the newer generations would grow more colors than the last, progressively becoming more colorful until they contained all the colors in the world. Julia found the rare butterflies beautiful, and for that reason brought them treats and built beautiful butterfly houses out of wood and paint. She spent every moment she had making amazing and intricate butterfly mansions using paint her father bought with the few coins he could spare.
Julia stopped talking to the butterflies, since they never had any intent to listen to her. And most storytellers find that telling a tale is worthless when the listener is not interested in listening. That was until one new caterpillar arrived in her little world. This caterpillar was different from the others. It would crawl up to Julia at every opportunity, and seemed to appreciate her – which was, uniquely, neither worshipping nor trying to be worshiped. Julia, who usually didn’t like the caterpillars, took a fancy to this one, and she named him Simple Simon, only because he seemed so truthful and honest.
Simple Simon and Julia formed the biggest bond of all, beyond that she ever had in her isolated life in a carpenters house. Simple Simon was not beautiful, and she felt no shame in taking him away from the beautiful garden. The caterpillar went with her everywhere, the garden, and the rare times she went home or to town. Simon became her soul mate, and she realized how much more substance this ‘friend’ had compared to the garden.
Time passed on. More and more did she find that her dear Simon was made an outcast for giving away his freedom… but that was what they did themselves! She found this knowledge angered her, and with every day that passed, she grew a hatred of her garden. What right did they have to impose so many laws? How could Simon’s parents accept these laws? How dare they make Simon an outcast for his own choices? The more and more these questions wheeled around her head, the more she found her garden was an obnoxious and undesired world. She felt as if she had created an abomination. On a sudden impulse, she took Simon into her hand and locked away her precious garden, tossing away the key into the bushes where they might never be found again.
She would do anything, anything, to keep such unpleasantness from the world. And when she walked away, she pondered out loud, “They will be an enemy to themselves. They’ll live in their little coop, superior to everyone else and they will evolve to live superficially as reality is lost in translation. And when that happens, they will be imprisoned by their own ignorance… an elimination of choice.” Surprised by her own conclusion, Julia glanced at Simple Simon, and it was then that she couldn’t help but realize… there was no escape.
By the time she was able to compose her thoughts into rational ones that told her that she would have plenty of time to think about such things later, Simon was long gone. Closing her hand slowly, as if she was doing it for the first time, she walked the long trek home, ready for another world that was the same as the last.
Thanks for the help! ~ bluestone
The Garden of a Little Girl
Somewhere down a long windy dirt path, that leads though the undergrowth under an enormous forest canopy, through the sharp vines and bushes and streams of water that led from the mountains high above, there lay a little private world. What was once a garden of a little girl whose father was a carpenter, living in a little cottage only a few kilometers upstream, was now a huge overgrown mass of unkempt flowers encompassed in a large stonewall built for her fifth birthday by her loving grandfather.
Julia, the little girl, would trek down the stream to her little hideout every morning, even through rain, storm and even gale, wearing her little yellow parka and accompanied by her father in particularly horrendous weather. She grew all kinds of flowers over the years. At first, she grew flowers that were easy to buy and grow, such as bellflowers, lavender and forget-me-nots. Every day, Julia would fill her watering can at the stream, water every plant individually with as much love and care as her little hands could supply, and wait for a few hours just in case she could catch one growing.
After a week or so, a cacophony of sprigs had spurted out from the ground and Julia was encouraged to spend more time with her plants. She grew a sudden habit of talking to the plants, telling her deepest secrets and every little detail that happened to her. While explaining her father and their lifestyle, things became clearer to her. “He is a strong man,” She admitted, “But he is not intelligent. He chops down wood and calls himself a carpenter but he is not a carpenter. A carpenter makes things out of the wood. He sends the wood to a carpenter in town for prices that are too cheap, and is thought little of by the town.”
The plants never responded, nor did she expect them to, despite her fantasies. But even though they didn’t reply or give her council, she found that just knowing that perhaps they could hear her was enough. With the sudden feeling of freedom in her garden, and a sort of power, she spent hours searching for roses for her garden, until she had made an entire hedge of roses in the center.
The weeks passed drearily by through winter. Julia felt the pain of the plants, yearning for the heat of the summer’s sun. She had covered the plants the best she could, and even without the sun, they grew on the power of her radiating innocence, a fantasy that the plants were people and were all she needed.
Spring began and she found full satisfaction in her hard work as the entire garden bloomed to life, as if they were waiting anxiously for winter to end. Along with the new flowers, butterflies made their way into the garden. Beautiful ones that were blue and red, and a few yellow ones, and violet ones that exactly matched the shade of her purple bluebells. She spent countless hours playing with the new butterflies. Soon, one butterfly became her ‘friend’ and would come and sit on her hand whenever she came in. It stopped leaving the garden at night like the others did. Julia started to tell stories to the butterfly, not things about her but rather imaginations and ideas that came to her.
She began to dream of a better life, of a better father and how much more she could do in the world if she was able to access the resources of the world. Julia came to believe, just from the accomplishment of her garden, that she was better than her father, the mere carpenter-who-was-not-a-carpenter. In her garden, he would be stunned by her work, and would tell her that it was the best he had ever seen. Julia felt the truest joy in her life and swore to herself that the garden would be the best in the world.
As Julia spent more time in the garden, the butterflies began to obey her further and constantly hovered around her as if in worship of her brilliance. Julia wondered why they should stick around her, imprisoned by the need to idolize her. “If I were a butterfly, I would show off my beautiful colors to every passerby,” She admitted whimsically, with a small laugh, the butterflies started to dance around her like a musical of colors, “I don’t see how butterflies can be so very modest. If butterflies were to boast their beauty, they could control the world and make the world worship them.” The butterflies buzzed in agreement.
Slowly, yet surely, the butterflies started to ignore Julia when she came in. She would have to search for them, and even then, they would hover above her, just out of reach. Just as strangely, the newer generations would grow more colors than the last, progressively becoming more colorful until they contained all the colors in the world. Julia found the rare butterflies beautiful, and for that reason brought them treats and built beautiful butterfly houses out of wood and paint. She spent every moment she had making amazing and intricate butterfly mansions using paint her father bought with the few coins he could spare.
Julia stopped talking to the butterflies, since they never had any intent to listen to her. And most storytellers find that telling a tale is worthless when the listener is not interested in listening. That was until one new caterpillar arrived in her little world. This caterpillar was different from the others. It would crawl up to Julia at every opportunity, and seemed to appreciate her – which was, uniquely, neither worshipping nor trying to be worshiped. Julia, who usually didn’t like the caterpillars, took a fancy to this one, and she named him Simple Simon, only because he seemed so truthful and honest.
Simple Simon and Julia formed the biggest bond of all, beyond that she ever had in her isolated life in a carpenters house. Simple Simon was not beautiful, and she felt no shame in taking him away from the beautiful garden. The caterpillar went with her everywhere, the garden, and the rare times she went home or to town. Simon became her soul mate, and she realized how much more substance this ‘friend’ had compared to the garden.
Time passed on. More and more did she find that her dear Simon was made an outcast for giving away his freedom… but that was what they did themselves! She found this knowledge angered her, and with every day that passed, she grew a hatred of her garden. What right did they have to impose so many laws? How could Simon’s parents accept these laws? How dare they make Simon an outcast for his own choices? The more and more these questions wheeled around her head, the more she found her garden was an obnoxious and undesired world. She felt as if she had created an abomination. On a sudden impulse, she took Simon into her hand and locked away her precious garden, tossing away the key into the bushes where they might never be found again.
She would do anything, anything, to keep such unpleasantness from the world. And when she walked away, she pondered out loud, “They will be an enemy to themselves. They’ll live in their little coop, superior to everyone else and they will evolve to live superficially as reality is lost in translation. And when that happens, they will be imprisoned by their own ignorance… an elimination of choice.” Surprised by her own conclusion, Julia glanced at Simple Simon, and it was then that she couldn’t help but realize… there was no escape.
By the time she was able to compose her thoughts into rational ones that told her that she would have plenty of time to think about such things later, Simon was long gone. Closing her hand slowly, as if she was doing it for the first time, she walked the long trek home, ready for another world that was the same as the last.