Magnetic Poetry Exercise

As stated previously, I loved my sentence resulting from the magnetic poetry exercise so much, I decided to write a short story around it. Here is what I came up with:

The axe cracked across the trunk of the tree, sending a resilient echo through the sky. He let out a breath of exhaustion as he dropped the axe, head first, on the ground and let the handle land on the pile of leaves that formed a mound by his feet. With a tired step backwards, Chris looked up at the tree, examining his axe’s marks in the rough bark.

This was the second tree to fell today. It was easily thirty feet, thick and strong, healthy. He almost felt guilty for killing what was once alive when he felt so dead inside. Two more should just about do it. He craned his neck, turning his head as if to tune his line of sight on its destination. There it was, the foundation that had been poured weeks ago. A rich colored cedar skeleton encircled the cloudy cement. Chris had done everything he could to build himself a cabin that looked like it was built in the 1800’s.

At one time, that dream had also included Aster. He had sketched the plans with the idea that she would stand in the yard with their dog and their little girl, calling for him as he chopped firewood. He had never told that dream to anyone. He was introverted as it was, but this was the thing he wanted the most out of the world; a simple, carefree, loving life. Had he told anyone this dream, he would have bared his soul and that was something he couldn’t possibly do.

Shaking his head out of his reverie, Chris picked up the axe and moved with two quick steps to the other side of the tree. The axe no longer felt heavy in his hand, it felt lighter; like he had some how gained more strength. Squaring his feet and his shoulders, he raised the axe in his air. With a thick inhale, smelling like wood chips and wet leaves, Chris heaved the axe into the tree.

Fleetingly, he swore he could hear her laugh. Aster’s laugh was beautiful, fresh, happy. It never sounded contrived or forced. Chris stopped in mid chop. It made his heart pound; the thought of her being in such close proximity that he could hear her laugh. For a second, a smile tugged at his lips. Then the anxiety rose, making his fingers twitch in his clenched hand. It couldn’t be her. She had made her decision. She was gone now and he ached for the past, but Chris knew it would never be the same. Aster couldn’t take back the words she said or the hate she instilled in him. No apology could allow someone to overcome the hurt she had caused him.

It had felt like a punch in the gut recalling these memories. Then he heard it again. That simple laugh that floated like a cloud, rounded and full. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, a rustle, and a little song bird darted from the bushes and out into the sky. Chris was vaguely aware of the bird’s parting beak as it belted out Aster’s laugh.

Chris knew it was time for this all to end. He was tired of dragging these awful memories with him wherever he went. They tainted him. Old haunts and friends reminded him too much of the time he had spent with her, whether they were in love or fighting like dogs.

He was pursuing his dream, even if he had modified it. This was what he had always wanted, a large parcel of land, settled in the middle of nowhere. The air was pure and the only sound was that of the woods. He was building the house he had always wanted. No one had lived in it, no one had visited, no one knew about it but Chris. It was a fresh start and a clean slate.

It was time for this misery to end. Once again, Chris brought the axe up, eyeing the perfect spot on the tree. With a breath, he tried to picture all the ties he had to Aster, physically, emotionally, mentally. He visualized his heart growing limbs that shot out in all directions, finally coming to a rest as they attached themselves to Aster.

Chris smiled. He was going to get rid of the past. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was ready to be done with this period of his life, but the bird chirped again and he decided he couldn’t stand the memories any longer. Bringing the axe to the tree, Chris severed all of his heart’s little arms that had clutched onto Aster.

Instantly, he felt his shoulders drop, all the tension melting down his arms and into the ground. His chest suddenly felt lighter, as if he hadn’t been able to breath in months. Exhilarated, he picked up the axe, bringing it to the tree again. And again. And again. Until every rotten memory from his past was gone. He sweated out her love with a scream like a winter symphony.

Now remember, just because you turned a sentence into a short story, doesn't mean you can't turn that short story into a novella or even a novel. Enjoy.