C.P.’s Comments (group member since Apr 29, 2024)

C.P.’s comments from the C. P. Cabaniss Writing Project group.

Four - Tala Age 23

Sweat drips from my forehead as the heat from the coals in the forge blasts me with its intensity. I frown when sweat runs into my eyes, obscuring my vision. I swipe the offending wetness away with the back of my hand as I refocus on the sword among the embers.

The metal is bright, pliable, and when I remove it to pound it with my hammer, sparks fly as the connection is made. It is beautiful, this tool of destruction. What happened to all the swords used in the battles of long ago? Our records spoke of the wars, the bloodshed, and my swords are perfected versions of those outlined in some of our scrolls. If the scrolls survived, then what happened to the swords?

I was young when the man in the Bone Wood first told me there would be war–younger than Calan was when he was informed. Sometimes I see that man, the one from the Bone Wood, without trying. His pale skin, the blue eyes, and red of his lips. If it wasn’t the same man that Calan saw, then all of those of the Bone Wood must be identical.

How many people are in the Bone Wood?

I have more questions in my mind than there are answers to satisfy them. Although I don’t let Calan know it, sometimes I wonder if we are doing the right thing. The swords are gone for a reason. The men are in the Bone Wood for a reason. Can they not come out? Who are they? How long have they been there? How long do they live? What will this war do for them?

The number of questions continues to rise and I take a deep breath as I study the sword. After Calan’s tests with the first one of this design, I’ve replicated the process as closely as possible. It is not the design of the scrolls, but something lighter, stronger.

Deadlier.

I fear what this war will do to our people. Already Calan and I are shunned. Even our own parents avoid us. But something about what the man from the Bone Wood said, and how he said it, felt inevitable.

If war is coming, I would rather be prepared and have a chance to defend myself than be slaughtered because I wasn’t willing to listen.

The sword glows a soft orange as I study it. My thoughts refuse to leave the one thought that has plagued them since Calan visited the Bone Wood.

What does it profit the messenger?

Three - Calan Age 20

There is a ring of steel on steel as my sword meets that of my opponent. Our strength is nearly equal, so I hold him at bay as I duck down and twist, dropping my sword from one hand to the other. The maneuver causes Meklin to stumble and I use my empty hand to slap him in the shoulder.

His sword falls to the ground as I hit the pressure point in his upper arm. Instead of retaliating, he stands upright and grins.

“That’s a new one, Cal. You have to teach me.”

The admiration in his voice makes me uncomfortable and I lower my sword as I take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from my brow.

“I don’t know how to teach you, Mek. I did it instinctively.”

The sword sits heavy in my hand. Tala has been perfecting the process and this one is lighter, easier to wield, than the other versions. Surprisingly, it hasn’t lost the strength of those either. I make a mental note to report the test–she will want every detail.

Meklin shrugs. “We can recreate the fight like we always do. Is anyone else training today?”

I shake my head. It’s been years, but Tala and I are still outcasts in the minds of the tribe. Those who train with us–like Meklin–are not shunned as severely. We were the ones who had listened to the voices. It was us who started making swords–a weapon designed to kill men. Although the scrolls talked of swords, even gave some details Tala has been able to use in their manufacture, our people had not known them for a thousand years.

“I wanted to try out the new swords, make sure they wouldn’t fail, before putting them in the hands of the others.”

Meklin grins again. “Tala trusted me with one of the first swords?” He glances down at the weapon on the ground, fingers flexing as if he wants to retrieve it.

“Don’t get your hopes up. She trusted me with them. Asked me not to pick an idiot for the test.”

His smile changes and there's a gleam in his eyes. “So she doesn’t think I’m an idiot, then.”

I shake my head, toss my sword into the cloth wrapping at the edge of the clearing. “I don’t think you’re an idiot. Tala wouldn’t be able to pick you out of a line of all the boys our age.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slump and I shake my head. Aside from me, I don’t know that my sister could pick any of the boys out of a line.

Boys.

I still think of myself that way. A boy–inexperienced, naive, stupid. But we’re twenty now and have officially been recognized in the tribe as men. At sixteen, when I went to the Bone Wood, I thought I felt like a man. Now I feel younger than ever.

“Do you think it’s really going to happen?” Meklin asks after picking up his sword. “War?”

Even the word war was practically foreign to our ears. We knew of the battles of the tribes from long ago, but it’s not something anyone living remembers.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles when Meklin says it. Not from fear of the conflict, whenever it comes, but the longing in his voice. My friend wants this. He turns the sword this way and that, admiring the craftsmanship. The potential for destruction.

I wish I could blame his scrutiny of the weapon on his admiration for my sister. But the gleam in his eyes tells me that she is far from his thoughts now.

“I wish it weren’t,” I tell him as I reach to take the sword from his grip. It takes him a moment to relinquish it.

A new weight rests on my shoulders as we trudge back toward home. What have I done to my people?

Two - Zakir Age 20

War is coming.

I’ve been preparing my entire life to hear these words. To defend my people. To break the bands of oppression that hold us here, hidden, protected by those of the White Wood, and finally prove ourselves.

But now, as the echo of the words from the White Wood fade, I am lost.

A series of questions cycle through my mind: when will war come? do we take a defensive or offensive stance? where will it happen?

If my years of training have taught me anything, however, it is that my role is not to question. It is my place to wait.

Our group, though not large in comparison to the armies of the past, is several hundred strong. Each of us is assigned a unit–we train together, sleep together, eat together, and meditate together. Now I cast a sidelong glance at my unit, spread to my right, each with his legs folded carefully beneath him. We all took a sharp breath when we heard the words, but no one else has risked even a glance.

Our discipline sits better on their shoulders than it ever has on mine, but I do my best to hide the weakness.

And now I still myself with a deep breath as I focus my attention on the White Wood again. Though I feel lost, our training prepared us for this moment. We must wait a specific amount of time–the seconds tick by in my head, counting–to see if further instruction comes. If it does not, then we report whatever we heard to the unit leader.

Will he know what to do with the cryptic warning?

Every year of my life, the White Wood has spread a little further toward us, pushing us that much closer to the sea that hems us in on the other side. Those in the Wood do their best to protect us, but a constant push from our oppressors is an equal push against them.

They can buy us time. They cannot save us.

As the countdown in all our heads reaches the end without further guidance or warning, we raise our gazes to the Wood in unison. Then, rising to one knee, heads bowed in thanks, we utter the words–words in a foreign language that we do not understand–of gratitude to our protectors.

As I rise to follow my unit from the edge of the White Wood, a chill slides down my spine. It feels like a warning.

For the first time in my life, I do not want to turn my back on the Wood and those who reside in its depths.

***
My body dances with nerves as I prepare my camp and I flinch at the slightest noise. I’m the only person out here, so the noises come from me, but I keep expecting the voices from the Bone Wood to speak.

I have experience camping away from the tribe. Some of my trips were even taken alone. But this is different–I’ve never camped on the edge of Whisper Wood before. How much of what I’ve been told is myth and how much reality?

My hands work by rote as I string up my canvas cover and it takes twice as long as usual because I’m distracted by the white trees and the deathly, still silence. There is a perimeter I hadn’t expected, a no man’s land between my tribal land and that vast, skeletal forest. I set camp on the edge of this, still inside my own bounds, after deciding this meets the terms of our agreement.

We never said we had to camp in the Bone Wood, just at the Bone Wood. As I settle in, chewing on a meat stick for my meal, I wonder if you can hear the whispers from here. If I don’t hear anything, no one will believe I came here at all, Meklin or no Meklin.

If I haven’t heard them by morning, I decide, I will have to cross the no man’s land.

With this thought in mind, I lie down on my sleeping mat as stars begin to dance across the sky and the red moon rises over white trees.

***

A shrill whistle wakes me and I blink bleary eyes in the pitch dark of night. Then I remember where I am and sit upright, body tensing. All is quiet.

Something rustles, soft, like the brush of leaves when touched by soft wind. Then the whistle again–it starts quiet, almost imperceptible, before crescendoing in an ear splitting screech. I bring my arms up, cover my ears with my hands as my temples throb with the noise.

Silence.

After several moments, I lower my arms.

Then I hear them. The whispers. Indistinct muttering, at first. But it coalesces in recognizable words and my insides freeze with fear. We’ve been warned about this, the whispers that will haunt us, drive us mad. I do my best to block them out.

When I glance at the stars, I see that I couldn’t have slept for more than a couple of hours. It’s too early to go home. To go home now would be to fail. Perhaps Tala would tell me I’m an idiot again for considering a wager with the other youth a failure, but it doesn’t change the fact that I would see it that way.

I have to stay.

Sleep is an impossibility now so I sit cross legged and close my eyes as I try to calm my breathing. I dig deep, try to recall any strong memories. Anything with strong emotion attached. Something to distract me.

“Calan.”

My eyes snap open.

The Bone Wood knows my name.

I inhale and exhale in sharp gasps as I try to calm myself. I’ve never heard of anyone being spoken to by name. Perhaps it’s only those who are driven mad. There is a rustle in the Bone Wood, a scrape as if someone is walking. I want to run, flee this place, but my legs won’t work.

“Calan,” the voice says again, raspy. “There is no need to fear. We mean you no harm.”

Ignore them, I tell myself. Focus.

Although it goes against all of my instincts, I close my eyes. I have to master this, master myself. I can’t let fear rule me. Not now, not ever. And even if I could make my muscles lift me, I can’t leave now.

Idiot, I almost hear Tala say. For once, I think I agree with her. But I won’t look like a fool in front of everyone. I am not a quitter.

“We knew you would come,” the voice says, insistent. “We must warn you. You must prepare.”

Don’t listen, don’t listen. They only want to drive you mad. They want to lead you into the Bone Wood, add you to their hoard of skeletons.

More scraping echoes through the stillness around me. It is so like footsteps that I imagine someone stalking close. And then, I feel it: warm breath across my face.

“We told Tala, years ago. We must tell you now.”

When I open my eyes this time, there is a face only inches away. It is pale white, like the trees of the Bone Wood, but its eyes glow a lustrous blue and its lips are bright red.

I try to scream but my body won’t listen. Terror has me paralyzed. I can’t move, can’t speak. What is this creature? Who is this creature? Why can I not command myself? Why does fear not propel me away?

At least my thoughts haven’t been paralyzed.

Above all these questions floats one thought–he said Tala.

The creature–person–being–man, moves closer, blinks. The twin moons of his eyes disappear in darkness for a moment. His breath is warm on my skin. There is no stench. He is not a corpse.

People live in the Bone Wood.

“Wh-wh-what did you tell Tala?”

The red lips part to speak and for the first time, I choose to listen.
“War is coming.”

Use this space to chat about the story, make suggestions about what could happen next, and anything else you want to chat about to do with the story.

One - Calan Age 16

Legend says that the forest was once a single, vast expanse. That there was trade between the tribes, travel beyond the bounds of the trees, and that Whisper Wood–or the Bone Wood, as most of us call it–didn’t exist.

But these are only stories. If there is any truth to the myths, it’s been obscured by time. Our records date back a thousand years and every scroll warns of Whisper Wood and its dangers. We are taught from birth to be wary of the white, skeletal trees and their fingers that reach toward the sky; to never listen to the whispers that echo from the depths of this ghostly stretch of forest that surrounds us.

I suppose it’s wrong to say that the stories are false, but they aren’t the whole truth. Although Whisper Wood has always existed, the tribes did trade, and there was travel beyond the trees. But that was before the war. Before the whispers in Whisper Wood became dangerous, before the trees took on their ghostly appearance.

Before those who tried to travel across its breadth started returning changed or not at all.

We all know the myths, good and bad, but a thousand years have passed since the war. A lot can change in a thousand years.

“You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?”

My hands fall still on my pack as I turn toward the sound of the voice. Tala stands in the doorway, head cocked to one side, expression blank as she studies me. I’ve known her my whole life and I still don’t know what to make of her tone.

“You’re an idiot, Calan,” she sighs. “But I guess everyone has to try at least once.”

I rock back on my heels, pack forgotten as I regard her in a new light. “You’ve visited the Whisper Wood?”

She raises her chin to better look down at me. Her green eyes glow in the light that flickers through the room. For a moment, I think she has something to tell me. Something important.

But then she shakes her head and the moment is gone.

I turn back to my pack, cinch it tight, and rise to my feet. Tala is still watching, but she doesn’t try to stop me as I walk to the door, pull it open, and toss my pack down, ready to follow. I have one foot on the ladder before she speaks.

“Be careful, Cal.”

Our eyes lock when I look up. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, yeah?”
She gives one small nod that could be agreement or farewell, maybe both. Then she turns back into the house, disappearing before I take a step down.

The descent is long when you’re trying to be quiet, but I don’t linger when my feet hit the ground. Retrieving my pack, I take one look up at the house high above me, tamp down the niggle of fear that sits in my stomach, and take the first step toward the Bone Wood.

***

Maps of the Great Forest–which is what some people call the forest as a whole–place our tribe in a small portion of forest completely surrounded by the Bone Wood, which means it should be easy to find. I hope.

My shoulders relax the further I travel from home. Music and voices from the houses high overhead carry down and it feels like any other day. In theory, I should be able to go any direction and find the Bone Wood, so I avoid the paths that would lead me past too many familiar faces. The last thing I need is someone reporting to Mom and Dad exactly where I’ve gone.

“Cal!”

My muscles tense for a moment as worry that I’ve been found out already creeps into my mind, but then I register the voice and release a long breath. Meklin is almost level with me when I turn, his long hair tied back in a tail that swings as he jogs to catch up.

“I slipped out when I saw you pass,” he explains as he catches his breath. “I thought I could go with you to the perimeter.”

I raise my brows. “Nervous for your turn?”

“No,” he says too quickly.

He pauses when I start off again and I think he might turn back, but he takes three bounding strides and catches up to me. We drew lots to decide who would take the first trip. There had been a collective sigh of relief from everyone else when I pulled the short stick, though they all feigned disappointment.

Meklin doesn’t speak and I’m grateful. Conversation would only call more attention to us. It’s bad enough that he will have to turn back without me. Then again, maybe he can be my cover. If anyone asks, he can always tell them I went home by a different path.

As we travel, the houses overhead grow further apart. Most of the tribe live in large clusters of houses, bridges slung between them. Those who live in these far flung houses are either reclusive and wouldn’t care about two boys passing below or are too busy to bother about us.

“How do we know when we reach the perimeter?” The question is quiet, almost a whisper. There are no guards to keep us within the bounds of the tribe.

I’m about to poke fun at his nerves when I realize our footsteps are the only thing I hear. No more voices or music from the houses in the treetops; no scurry of animal feet; no wind. When I focus ahead, I see it: a bone white tree, its bare branches reaching toward the sky.

“I think we found it,” I whisper back, nodding.

When his gaze lands on the tree, Meklin freezes, eyes going wide. His throat bobs when he swallows. He takes a small step backward.

“Good luck,” he tells me. Then he turns and runs.

I am alone on the edge of the Bone Wood.

***

Through social media (instagram, youtube, facebook) I asked my friends and readers to help me write a story. I posted various polls and asked people about genre, age level, and other things. Here are the results.

Adult
Epic/high fantasy
Friendship
1st person
Multiple perspective
Present tense

I don't have any grand goals with this. I hope to post every month. You will be getting my raw, unedited writing.